


A Fear of Wolves

by Im_All_Teeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Little Red Riding Hood Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Hermione Granger, Betrayal, Body Horror, Captivity, Cats, Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Developing Relationship, Disability, Drama, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Falling In Love, Family, Female Protagonist, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kidnapping, Legends, Loss, Love, Love/Hate, Magic, Minor Character Death, Multiple Crossovers, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Physical Disability, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Red Riding Hood Elements, Relationship(s), Romance, Secret Identity, Secrets, Shapeshifting, Strong Female Characters, Teen Romance, Tragedy, War, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-06 13:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 55,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_All_Teeth/pseuds/Im_All_Teeth
Summary: "Do not stray from the path again. There are terrible monsters in these woods that would like nothing more than to devour delicious little girls like you. Run along to your grandmother's house and pray stop for no one." Fairy Tales, retold. Originally posted on Fanfiction.net.





	1. A Wolf in the Woods

Once upon a time, there was a village nestled against a thick and foreboding forest where there lived a girl who was as beautiful as the day was long. Her eyes were large like two white-blue moons and her hair shone like spiderwebs in the sunshine. She had rose-colored lips and high apple cheeks and everyone agreed that surely she was the most exquisite creature to ever grace the little village. When she was born, her mother named her "Astoria." Astoria was named for a purple-yellow shock of a flower that grew when the weather was warm and the word that some dead civilization used for the stars. Astoria: Lovely, frail, and pale. She was everything that beauty should be, but something in her eyes hinted that there was poison under her porcelain skin. She smiled just a little too wide at the village boys and laughed a little too loud at silly jokes. Of course no one hated Astoria – it was a small village and hatred was a very dangerous idea to throw around, especially in these dark times – but they knew to be nervous around her the same way cattle know how to be wary of hungry howls carried on the wind.

All admired Astoria for afar, but none loved her. None except for Hermione, that is. Hermione, named for the virtuous and beautiful queen of some dead poet's vision, was everything that Astoria was not. Her hair flew indecisively about her head and her eyes, though a decent shape and size, were an average, muddy brown. While not a soul could say that she was not comely in her own way, she was distinctly plain and no more appealing than dirt when placed next to the ethereal and airy Astoria. This did not deter Hermione from befriending the statuesque young girl, though.

While the village kept the quiet and lovely Astoria at a distance, they held Hermione to them with warm and loving arms, for Hermione was as kind and intelligent as her friend was lovely. "Ah!" Many a villager had lamented, "If only Hermione had Astoria's features or Astoria, Hermione's gifts and heart! What a lovely girl that would be!"

The two girls had been friends from childhood and never was one seen without the other. This was very well and good as far as the rest of the village was concerned; it was better to have them together than apart, after all. Strange things happened when either girl was around, but less frequently when they were together. Still, the unexplained events that followed the unlikely pair like shadows were not discussed. Such talk could be seen as unnecessary – or even dangerous- these days.

In recent times, a plague of deaths and bad luck had invaded the little village, and instead of speaking in laughter and smiles, the denizens scurried about their business with their eyes rolling and their lips thin. There had been Trouble, strange Trouble, and it had come from the woods.

The Trouble was first announced by Vernon the Farmer when he ran into town, announcing that his flock had been slaughtered in the night.

"Wolves," The elders nodded to each other, their eyes flying anywhere but on the bloody and deflated bodies of Vernon's sheep.

A week later, Trouble returned on quick feet, when the screams of Hannah Abbot echoed around the village square, the sound bouncing off of the high trees and scaring the horses. A troop of men with torches and pitchforks found her lying in a teary heap, just on the edge of the forest. Mr. Granger (the town barber-surgeon) had reported that there was not a mark on her body. When the girl had recovered enough sense to explain, she just shook a trembling head. All she could remember were pointed faces and barking laughter.

"Terror of wolves," Agreed the elders, talking amongst themselves and leaving the stricken girl too soon to hear Hannah's tripping tongue decree once, and only softly to Hermione, that the wolves had spoken, although in a language she did not understand. "Crucio," She told Hermione, her eyes wide with honest fear, "That's all they said."

A mist settled like water over the town next, and with it came a bleakness and misery that spread like a sickness through the houses. Shops closed and windows stared vacantly out at empty streets.

Tom the Crier began acting strangely. His face was pale and his eyes were dead. His wife, Mary, whispered tearfully to her neighbors that he had been rising in the middle of the night and walking into the dark woods, which swallowed him instantly from her view. She never followed him, of course. She was heavy with child and the woods were dangerous, besides. No one went into the woods anymore, if they could help it.

And the elders could not explain this, but felt no need to. These were dark times, after all, and men sometimes did strange things.

Less than a fortnight after Mary had brought her fears to the elders, Tom killed her. Mrs. Dursley had walked into Tom and Mary's kitchen to find Mr. Riddle's hands clasped around Mrs. Riddle's purpled throat. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of the tears that ran unchecked down Tom's cheeks. Vernon and his enormous son, Dudley, were forced to break Tom's fingers to remove them from Mary's throat, and by then, her body was as cold as stone.

And the elders did not look each other in the eye and Tom was hanged and life limped along in the village as best it could, although none went near Tom Riddle's now empty house, if they could help it.

"It's got to be someone like us," Hermione whispered to her friend as they walked the Granger's horse to the stream. Everything was whispered these days, even when there was no one else around to hear.

"They say it's wolves," responded Astoria in her articulate and ineffectual way.

"But you don't actually believe that, do you?" Hermione replied, rolling her eyes, "You can't seriously think that everything that has been happening here recently is because of a pack of silly wolves? There haven't even been wolves iaround here for almost a hundred years!"

Astoria's enormous eyes turned languidly on Hermione, "I think," she said quietly, "That it might be bad for us to start telling people that someone like us is making these things happen. I think it would associate us unnecessarily with the wrong people. Besides," she tossed her platinum head, "We can only turn sheep pink or make candles light just by thinking about them. Neither of us has ever conjured mist or made a man kill his wife."

Hermione weighed her friend's words. Astoria had always been very good at looking out for them both and keeping them out of trouble. So, Hermione let the subject drop, trusting her friend's conniving mind.

Later that same morning, a letter arrived in town for Astoria from her Grandmother. Astoria's mother had died shortly after childbirth, and consumption had claimed the lives of her father and elder sister later that same year, leaving only the baby Astoria and "The Greengrass Witch" to carry on the family name. Of course, everyone knew that the old Greengrass woman could not be a witch (such things were not real), but the entire family had been distinctly odd.

One could always count on the Greengrass Witch for a tincture or brew to cure ailments, but only if the enquirer was brave enough to travel into the woods to her cottage. Due to the events of recent months, however, the number of souls brave or foolish enough to pass through the dark trees had decreased. Not even Astoria ventured into the woods any longer, although no one was too surprised at that. She had been living with the Grangers for many years and traveled to see her grandmother only when the Witch needed something from town delivered.

The letter that came into town, clutched in the talons of the speckled brown owl that The Greengrass Witch kept as a pet, carried an unwelcome mission for Astoria. It demanded supplies from town and urgently, too.

Astoria looked unhappily at Hermione. She hated her grandmother and made no secret about it to her friend. "I don't want to go," she said simply, "The old hag can starve for all I care, or shrivel up, or do whatever it is that old hags do when they don't get supplies."

Hermione, who had always rather liked the old woman (she had an endless supply of books, which Hermione greatly appreciated), smiled appealingly back. "She's not all that bad," she tried to reason.

Astoria's bottom lip trembled. "But it's dangerous to go into the woods now! She has to know that! Oh, I hate her! I hate her!" She covered her pretty mouth with a dainty hand, muffling a sob.

Hermione felt her own heart softening at her friend's tears. "Surely it isn't as bad as you think it is," she wheedled, throwing a comforting arm around the younger girl.

"But I can't think of a way to get out of this, Hermione! I can't think of anything at all!"

"Well," said Hermione, reluctantly. She wasn't entirely sure that what she was about to suggest would be a good alternative, but really, what choice did she have? Astoria had never been particularly brave. Not like her, anyway. "I suppose I could run a basket of things out to her," she pronounced slowly.

Astoria's outlook changed in a flash, and Hermione knew she had been played as astutely as when Astoria convinced boys to fetch her flowers from the edge of the wood. "You really wouldn't mind?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, I suppose not," conceded Hermione finally. She had already offered, and how dangerous could a few silly, nonexistent, wolves be, anyway? Hermione was sure that she could take care of herself. "I've got to return a few book to her, besides."

"Oh, thank you, Hermione!" sang Astoria, "I'll even lend you my riding cloak, if you'd like. The pretty red one!"

Hermione, who had always secretly loved the thick red material, found this to be some consolation, at least.

A few hours later, just as the sun was reaching the highest point in the sky overhead, Hermione threw the red cloak over her thin shoulders and picked up the basket from the table.e "I'm leaving," she said, secretly annoyed with the haste Astoria had made to prepare everything for her journey. "I'll be back by nightfall," Hermione promised, and stepped out of the door and into the woods.

The woods were lovely, although eerily silent, as though all of the birds and small creatures were holding their breath while the girl in the little red riding cloak walked by them.

Very soon, she came to a fork in the road, and there she stood for a moment to consider a patch of flowers that was illuminated by a jagged mouth of light which had somehow fallen through the trees. Ought she to pick some for the grandmother? Everyone knew that you were not to leave the trail, but surely, a few feet and a handful of lovely white daisies wouldn't hurt anything, would they? She decided that the Greengrass Witch would be happy with a few pretty flowers, and probably also for the Monkshood that was growing a little further from the trail.

She had gathered an armful of daisies and herbs and was heading back toward the path when a smooth voice from behind her called out, "Good afternoon, Young Miss. And what, pray, are you doing?" Hermione's heart rioted at the noise, and her hair and her cloak whipped behind her as she turned.

She was quite perplexed by the sight that greeted her. Leaning against a tree was a handsomely dressed gentleman. His arms were folded lazily over his chest and a slim piece of wood was held loosely in his fingers. The most remarkable thing about this man, though, was his face, which was hidden behind the mask of what looked like a large gray dog.

"Good afternoon," she replied, curtsying and sounding much braver than she felt.

The well-dressed young man unfolded his arms and stalked toward her. She took an involuntary step backward.

"I'm afraid," said the figure's drawling voice again, taking a step forward, "that this is a very dangerous place for young girls to be walking these days."

She bristled slightly at this, despite her fear. 'Little girl'? Who did this fellow think he was? She asked him as much.

He chuckled and spread his arms wide, bowing deeply to her. "Why, I am simply Mister Wolf, and a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss...?"

"If you're only Mr. Wolf, then I suppose that I'm only Red Riding Hood," she quipped before she could stop herself. There was something at once thrilling and terrifying about this young man, and although answering in this way sent a thrill of terror down her spine, it also invigorated her. She caught the wolf's gray eyes with her own, and something hungry stared back at her.

"A fitting response, Miss Hood," purred Mr. Wolf, "But alas! I've lost my way, you see. Tell me, do you know where I am?"

Now, Hermione was no fool, and it was obvious that Mr. Wolf was lying, and although better sense warned her to simply leave now, curiosity was stronger and so she responded. "You are in the Black Forest, at the fork of the Path of Needles and the Path of Pins."

"And where does each path lead?" Asked Mr. Wolf as he circled her. She turned in place, keeping her face on his. The cloak rustled the dead leaves around her feet, sounding like applause or quiet laughter.

Hermione licked her lips before answering again, "They meet again at the Cottage of Lady Greengrass."

"Is that where you are going today?" inquired the wolf, too politely.

Ah yes. Now Hermione knew what he was after. "I'll not tell you that," she replied firmly. To her surprise, he merely chuckled at this and she had the overwhelming feeling that he was laughing at her.

"Very well, Red Riding Hood. But tell me this, at least: Does the Greengrass Witch have a granddaughter?"

"Yes," she said in a slow and puzzled voice. This was certainly an unusual question to be asked by a stranger in the wood.

The man in the mask took a graceful step forward, dead twigs snapping like bones under his boots, "And tell me true, Red Riding Hood, for I have heard it said that the Greengrass Witch is a most accomplished seamstress."

"That is one of her many talents, yes," Replied the girl in the cloak cautiously, taking an involuntary step back as he moved forward again.

"Then certainly the Greengrass Witch would use all of this skill to craft something lovely for her young granddaughter?" He suggested, his voice sounded half like a growl and half like a purr, and as he took another step forward, he twirled the thin piece of wood between kid-gloved fingers.

She clutched the cloak tighter around herself protectively, "That would be a logical assumption, yes," said lion-hearted Hermione, her voice clear and loud despite her mounting terror.

The man in the mask made to take another step forward, but as he did, the dry leaves on the ground before him burst into flame. He paused, looking coolly down at the newly-sprouted bright blue flames for a moment before saying in a clear and disinterested voice, "Aguamenti." A stream of silvery water shot from the end of the thin stick he carried and he directed it at the flames.

Steam curled between them like ethereal fingers and he turned his cold gray eyes back to her face. "Well, well, well," he said in his low and unbothered voice, "That is an interesting trick you have, Little Red Riding Hood. Now, tell me this, which path do you plan to take today?"

Too shocked to do anything but tell the truth, she told him, "The Path of Pins."

He shook his long gray face, "No, it would be best to take the Path of Needles, for the light is fast fading and that road is much the shorter. You'd do well not to stray from the path again," He warned ominously as he bowed out of her way, "There are terrible monsters in these woods that would like nothing more than to devour delicious little girls like you. Run along to your grandmother's house and pray stop for no one."

Without even bothering to correct his assumption that she was the Greengrass Witch's granddaughter, she hastened down the path, the red cloak billowing wide and terrible like a great vermilion beast close on her heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	2. The Wolf in the Cottage

Hermione raced down the path, her cloak a red streak trailing behind her, the basket swinging in her reaching arms. Although the still air stung her throat as she ran, she did not stop or slow until she reached the home of the Greengrass Witch. The witch's cottage in the woods was nothing that a normal cottage would be. It was large and imposing, with innumerable dark windows and a black iron gate that wrapped around the house and disappeared behind it.

Here, Hermione had to stop, for no one could enter the Greengrass Witch's home without direct approval. She wrapped her fingers around the cold metal, and at once, a loud voice boomed, "Who's that at my gate?" The voice echoed around the silent trees and Hermione hoped no one else was listening.

"It is I, Hermione," she answered, her voice trembling as she gasped for breath.

"Hermione," whispered the disembodied voice, "Lift the latch and come in."

Obediently, she lifted the heavy latch and the gate swung noiselessly inward. She stepped through and walked up the cobblestone path to the front door. The house before her was so large that it stood taller than the bare, finger-like trees that surrounded it. Sunset was bleeding red across the heavens and Hermione swallowed her trepidation. She had not wanted to be this late in arriving for she was unsure of who- or what- she would meet when she walked back.

Once she reached the front door, she knocked again. "Come in," crackled the harsh voice of the old Greengrass Grandmother. Hermione turned the knob and walked in.

"I'm in the parlor," called the old woman, and Hermione followed the sound of the voice through darkening rooms. She stopped in the doorway of the right room, for she could see the outline of a stooped person, framed in the red light that filtered through an old and grimy window. The figure took a step towards Hermione, and the floorboards screeched. Hermione did not move or speak. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

"Incendio," snapped the old woman, and a red fire leaped into life in the enormous hearth, casting a harsh light on Madame Greengrass. Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. No one else could know the old woman's secret fire-making word. She was just still a little shaken up by her strange run-in with Mr. Wolf. that was all. There was nothing to be afraid of here.

"Take your hood off, child," Astoria's grandmother commanded, her ice-chip eyes taking in Hermione's wind-swept curls and flushed face.

At these orders, Hermione untied the scarlet cloak and draped it lovingly over one arm. "What shall I do with it?" she asked politely. As full as the house was of books and intimidating-looking high-backed chairs with clawed feet, there were relatively few places to leave cloaks and this one was a work of ornate and incredible beauty and belonged to Astoria, so she was loathe to treat it poorly.

The old woman turned away from Hermione and shuffled through another door on the other side of the room, the floor screaming in protest while she walked. Over her shoulder, the grandmother called, "Just throw it in the fire; You won't need it again."

Hermione was perplexed by this but was quite attached to the cloak, and so instead of throwing it on the fire, she folded it neatly and placed it gently into her basket before following the old woman into the next room. The room beyond the parlor was the library, and innumerable books lined the walls up to the ceiling and a small silver top was spinning and whistling quietly from a table beside a dark-stained wooden chair. The Greengrass witch was seated in this chair imperiously. As Hermione entered, the old woman's lip curled in a cold smile. "You must be hungry, my dear," she said, her voice like rat's feet on a cellar floor, "Go into the kitchen. There you'll find a little bread and wine. Eat that and then come back and sit with me, for we have much to discuss."

"Oh no," said Hermione quickly, not wanting to impose, "I've only come to bring you the supplies you wanted. I really ought to be getting right home."

"No, no," the old woman waved a gnarled hand before her warped face, "I insist that you stay, if only for a little while. I am old, and terribly lonely. Would you deny an old witch her brief happiness?"

Hermione was taken aback by this. The old woman had never been particularly interested in her before. Of course, she had been civil when Hermione had come on visits with Astoria, but whenever she looked at Hermione before, it had always been with an unmistakable mild aversion. Furthermore, as far as Hermione knew, Madame Greengrass had never called herself a witch before.

But Hermione was a kind girl and decided that the old grandmother was simply lonely, and she really could do nothing but obey. So, Hermione walked through the dark and silent house until she located the kitchen. After a moment's search, she found a small loaf of golden-brown bread and a glass pitcher of dark red wine. She sat down at a polished black-oak table with these supplies and was just about to bite into the honey-colored loaf when a large ginger cat hopped onto the table beside her and began meowing loudly, his bottle-brush tail twitching in apparent anger.

Hermione instantly recognized the feline as Madame Greengrass's flat-faced Crookshanks. "Hello, Crooks," she cooed, holding out her hand. The cat simply hissed and swatted at her with a paw. She retracted her hand quickly, and so avoided getting scratched, but was confused. She had always got on splendidly with the onerous feline. Indeed, she had been the only one who had. "What's wrong, Crookshanks?" she asked, and was answered by a low growl in the cat's throat.

Deciding that there was nothing she could do about the cat at the moment, she returned her attention to the bread. She lifted it to her mouth, but just as she was about to take a bite, Crookshanks leaped forward with a yowl of rage and dashed the bread to the floor. "Crookshanks! What on earth-" But she was unable to finish her question because the cat leaped off of the table and through the open kitchen window.

With considerable regret (she had been quite hungry) she picked the spoiled loaf off the floor and disposed of it before turning her attention to the wine, which she was eager to enjoy, for she was very thirsty. She unstoppered the bottle, and just as she raised it to her parched lips, she heard the high call of an owl and turned just in time to see a large snowy owl soar through the still-opened window. The owl landed beside her at the table and held one taloned-foot out to her. It clutched a roll of parchment sealed with blood-red wax. The owl was obviously waiting for her to take the letter, and so she did. Before she could even remove the seal, the owl spread its alabaster wings and flew back out the way it had come.

Hermione stood and closed the window before any other animal or avian could find its way indoors. This completed, she sat back at the table and opened the missive carefully. Written therein were five words and no signature: The Wolves are near. Beware. Cold fear wrapped its skeletal fingers around Hermione's throat. Did the sender mean actual wolves? Could they get inside? She had to warn Madame Greengrass!

"Granddaughter?" came the old woman's call, "Granddaughter, where are you?"

"Coming," she called back, too distracted to hear Madame Greengrass's mistake, and, letter clutched in one hand. She stood and strode purposefully back toward the study.

The old woman was still seated in the high chair, looking at her, but something seemed different. Perhaps it was only the light of the fire dancing off her face, but Greengrass's skin looked almost bubbling. "What is it, my child?" Asked the woman, as if reading her mind.

"Well, Madame Greengrass-"

"Please, call me grandmother," interrupted the old woman, a saccharine smile curling on her lips. Something was definitely wrong. The old woman had never even wanted Astoria to call her grandmother.

Perhaps it was the fear of wolves that was causing Madame Greengrass to act in such a way? Figuring that it was only this, Hermione said again, "Grandmother, I'm sorry, it's just I always thought you wore glasses."

"Why, so I did, my dear, but you are close enough now that I don't need them to see you. Come a little closer, my pet." 'Grandmother' Greengrass curled one long, smooth finger toward her.

Her legs moved forward of their own accord one step and her heart hammered in her ears. Something was definitely wrong, and she realized that the ill-fitted piece was the old woman. All she could do was try to reason through it. "Grandmother," she said now, "What young and lovely hands you have." For indeed, the old woman's hands appeared to be those of a much younger woman, and the nails wrapped around the piece of wood she clutched were painted a deep crimson.

"All the better to hold you with, my dear," purred the old woman, but her voice no longer crackled with age.

Hermione tried to take a step backward, but some invisible force was holding her in place. "Grandmother, what a clear voice you have," she forced out of her mouth. Had the Greengrass witch used one of her powerful words? But she hadn't said anything, had she?

"Why, all the better to teach you spells with, my dear," purred the youthful voice behind the gnarled countenance, her dark hair and eyes glinting in the firelight.

"Grandmother," Hermione's voice trembled now and she was beginning to feel desperate. The Greengrass witch's hair had been as white as snow, or at least it should be. "What fine, dark hair you have."

"All the better to keep warm and beautiful, my pet," came the unhurried response.

Was this not-grandmother toying with her? A new anger began to vie with the already-established fear for possession of Hermione's constitution. What sort of fool did the woman in the chair take her for?

"Grandmother," she said, with as much hatred as she could muster, "What a large, annoying mouth you have."

The now-young woman in the chair before her glared, her lip curling in an unmistakable sneer. "An uneducated little muggle brat like you dares to talk to me in such a way?" she hissed, rising to her feet and pointing the stick at Hermione, who was still frozen to the floor. "Well, fine, my darling, all the better to curse you with! Avada ke-"

But whatever the woman had been trying to say would go forever unfinished, because right at that moment, the fireplace roared green and a figure came whirling out of it, shouting "Stupify!" A flash of red light erupted before her eyes, and the dark-haired woman fell to the floor, a snarl still frozen upon her lips.

"Are you alright?" the newcomer asked, darting up to Hermione. It was then that she realized that the newcomer was not one person, but two young men about her own age, staring at her now with more than a little concern, sticks like the woman's clutched in their hands and pointed at her chest. Before she could answer the question the first man – who had untidy dark hair and bottle-green eyes- had posed to her, the second man – much taller than his companion, with shaggy red hair and distrustful blue eyes – barked, "Who are you?" with much more ferocity than she had anticipated.

She puffed indignantly at this. "Hermione Granger," she snapped, glaring at the fiery-haired man. "And who are you?" she demanded in return.

They blinked at her, taken aback. Clearly, this was not what they had been expecting. When they didn't respond right away, she asked, "Is the woman on the floor completely immobilized? You might want to check."

The young men gaped at her, but the black-haired one went to check while the other one continued to glare at her. She paid her guard no mind, and instead watched as the other man murmured words and thick ropes shot from the end of his wand, wrapping tightly around the still-prone woman on the floor. He then stood and proceeded to hold his stick aloft, saying strange words Hermione didn't recognize. After a few long moments of this, during which she stayed politely silent, the dark-haired man returned to his companion's side. "Let's go to the kitchen," he suggested, "Talk about what's happened."

"You want to talk," spluttered the redhead, "With her? We don't even know who she is, do we? Could be one of them, couldn't she?"

"We won't know until we talk to her, Ron," replied the other wearily.

The Ron-apparent blustered some response and the still-nameless other one turned to her and suggested quite nicely, "Do you want to go to the kitchen to talk with us for a bit?"

"I can't," she said simply.

There was a moment of tense silence before the polite man asked, "Why not?"

"I can't move my legs," she said simply, deciding that honesty was probably the best policy in this situation.

The two young men shared knowing glances and "Leg locker," said Ron.

The shorter one pointed his wooden stick at Hermione and said, "Finite Incantatem."

Instantly, Hermione's knees buckled underneath her, and she collapsed to the floor, shaking. She felt as though she had run a marathon. She shot the nicer man a panicked look. "What's going on?"

"It's alright," he said soothingly, "This actually isn't an uncommon reaction. Now, up you get," and putting a hand under each of her arms, he heaved her back into a standing position. "Let's go talk about this in the kitchen, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	3. Stories of Wolves

Hermione watched as a spider walked on jointed legs across the surface of the table. She clasped and unclasped her hands. There are two kinds of horror stories. The first kind lives in the sighs of ghosts and imagined closet-monsters. They are dubious and in the world of light and fact, they are as insubstantial as dream. The other scary story is the one told at a scrubbed kitchen table by complete strangers. It is terrifying because it is true. Even if logic tells you to doubt, when young men who carry magic sticks cannot meet your gaze as they tell you who is lurking in the woods, you know in your bones to believe them. Hermione swallowed her mounting fear and spoke.

"Allow me to paraphrase. You mean to tell me that there are people in this world- like the two of you and Madame Greengrass- who can use magic. Cast spells. Like the things in children's stories."

The boy called Harry nodded.

"You are called witches and wizards," she said flatly.

Harry nodded again.

"You keep yourselves hidden from normal – I mean, people who can't use magic – and we basically live in parallel worlds."

"Yes, but that's not the important issue right now." Harry said quickly, "What's important is that there are two kinds of witches and wizards: There are the ones, like us, who are good and don't mind letting muggles like you live in your world while we live in ours. The other kind of wizard-"

"Like the woman who was pretending to be Madame Greengrass," Hermione supplied.

"Yes, like her, are Death Eaters, who want to exterminate all nonwizards."

Hermione nodded silently, processing everything. "So, where exactly do witches and wizards come from?" She was thinking about the stories of leprechauns sprouting out of trees and spirits living in rivers.

"Uh, well, I come from a family of wizards," supplied Ron.

"And my mum was a muggle-born witch. My dad came from a wizarding family, too." Said Harry, although a flicker of pain passed through his eyes.

Hermione had a difficult time digesting the word 'muggle'. "So, witches and wizards can be born from nonmagical people," she echoed, and Harry nodded again.

"If that's the case, how do they learn to use their," she thought for a moment, trying to choose her words carefully, "power?"

Harry turned to Ron, who shrugged. "Don't know. There isn't exactly some big school for learning this stuff. Mum learned how to use magic because there was a witch who lived nearby. I think that's how it's generally done."

"So what does someone do if they're born with magical powers and there's no one around to teach them?" she asked and the boys exchanged glances across the table before both shook their heads. They did not know.

"But this group of wizards, Death Eaters, don't think that muggle-born witches and wizards should be allowed to use magic. They think that magic should be kept completely within pure wizarding families," she continued. She was the brightest girl in her town, but this was still an awful lot to take in at once. The boy called Ron nodded sadly.

So, Hermione asked, "What were they doing here?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Hermione wondered what they were thinking. "Well," began Harry slowly, weighing his words carefully, "Persephone Greengrass was a pureblood witch, but she married a muggle. They, uh, they don't like when pure-bloods marry muggles. It makes them blood-traitors."

"But Persephone was Madame Greengrass's daughter. She died years ago," she exclaimed.

"And after that, Madame Greengrass started helping us," replied Harry, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. She had never seen glasses like those before. The only ones in the village belonged to Madame Greengrass and were small and round with shining golden frames.

Hermione nodded slowly. A groan escaped from the library. Apparently, the woman who was not Madame Greengrass was waking up. Harry and Ron stood simultaneously, and Hermione followed the motion a few moments later. "We've wasted enough time already," said Harry, his tone suddenly sharp.

"What are we going to do with," Ron glanced at Hermione.

"Hermione Granger," she supplied for the second time.

"That's an odd name," commented Ron.

"And you are a man in a dress." She shot back sharply, nodding at his black outfit.

"It's not a dress," was the prim response, "I'm wearing robes, but I wouldn't expect a muggle like you to know that."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond to this, but Harry cut in. "Anyway, Ron, we can't exactly leave her here, can we? Why don't you take her back to the Burrow with you and I'll take Bellatrix Lestrange to the ministry."

Ron nodded in assent, "Alright. We'll meet back home in a bit, then."

Although Hermione was thoroughly confused by the dialogue passing over her head, the two young men seemed to know exactly what they were talking about and walked confidently back into the library, where the woman with black hair was struggling against her binds, a furious expression in her gaze. Harry picked up her wand from where it had been discarded on the floor and tossed it casually to Hermione, who caught it with fumbling fingers. "Hold on to this, will you?"

"Idiot boy," screeched the woman, "Don't give my wand to that filthy muggle! You're sullying it! You're-"

"Silencio," grumbled Ron, pointing his wand at her. Immediately, she was silent, although her lips still moved furiously. "Right mate, best get going."

Harry nodded and said something under his breath that caused the woman, in all of her binds, to float in the air before him like an angry marionette. Using his wand as a guide, he maneuvered the floating woman back into the kitchen, smacking her head on the doorframe as he went.

"Whoops, sorry Bellatrix," he said, although Hermione did not think he sounded sorry at all. Ron walked behind them, and Hermione followed slowly behind him, still clutching the wand to her chest. As she passed the high-backed chair, she paused, and picked up the vermilion cloak and threw it around her shoulders. When she entered the kitchen, Harry was straightening over the fireplace, where high green flames were shooting up the chimney. Hermione fought the urge to jump backward.

"Good thing she was connected to the floo network," commented Ron offhandedly. Hermione intended to ask what that meant, but the caught in her throat because just then, as she watched, Harry stepped right into the flames, pulling the bound woman in beside him.

"The Ministry of Magic," said Harry in a loud, clear voice, and the green fire flared and then died completely, leaving a trace of neither Harry nor the woman. Hermione fell to her knees, shaking uncontrollably.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Ron, eying her cautiously.

"They're gone," she managed to squeak eventually.

"Oh that. You've never seen a floo before?"

When she shook her head, he said, "Blimey, how do muggles travel? Anyway, it's not as bad as it looks." He pulled a small pouch out of some hidden pocket and opened it, revealing bright green powder, "Just take a pinch of floo powder- this stuff- throw it on the fire, step into it, say 'The Burrow,' and the powder will do the rest. I'll go first, so you'll see me when you're supposed to get out, alright?"

She nodded mutely and took a pinch of the proffered powder. Hermione watched, partly in horror, partly in fascination, as Ron stepped into the fireplace and disappeared just as Harry had. In a flash of green light, she was all alone in the cottage. She rose to her feet and walked apprehensively toward the hearth. She wasn't afraid of the fireplace; she was simply curious. How did flu powder work? What distinguished wands from plain-old sticks? She raised her hand to cast the green powder when a sound caused her to turn, brandishing the wand in her free hand, her heart in her mouth.

Crookshanks scampered toward her, his bottle-brush tale completely erect. She bent down, and he leaped into her arms, his claws like tiny needles in her shoulders. "Do you want to come?" She asked the cat, and he meowed loudly, almost as if he understood the question. Because she could not leave the cat behind in an empty house with nothing to eat, she stuck the wand in a pocket of the cloak, and returned her attention to the fireplace, holding the cat to her like a baby.

Hermione threw the powder into the fireplace and noted that, while she jumped as the flames roared into life, the cat appeared completely unfazed. Just as she was about to step into the flames a silky voice behind her purred, "Leaving so soon, my pet?"

Without even thinking about it, she whipped the wand out of her pocket and screamed "Stupify!" She was rewarded with a flash of red light that erupted from the tip of the wand, and the man in the wolf mask stumbled backward. He did not fall to the ground the way the woman had when Harry had shouted the same word, but the mask slipped from his face, revealing very handsome youth with silver-blond hair and angry gray eyes staring at her. A snarl was etched on his sharp features, but he did not attack immediately. She didn't wait for him to regain his composure, and jumped into the flames and shouted "The Burrow!"

Her last glimpse of the Greengrass Witch's cottage was of the blond man, reaching one hand toward her before everything began to spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	4. To House a Wolf

Hermione spilled from the fireplace and then everything happened all at once. The red cloak wrapped around her legs and caused her to stumble forward onto the stone floor. The wand tumbled out of her grasp and rolled away. Crookshanks pushed himself from her arms and vanished out an open window. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning.

"Are you alright?" asked Ron, his voice loud with concern. He touched her elbow gingerly and handed the wand back to her.

"Fine," she replied hurriedly, brushing the ash off of the cloak.

"Mum!" called Ron, "Mum, we've brought someone home!"

There was no response. Ron took several lumbering steps toward the kitchen table and snatched up a folded piece of paper that had been laying on its scrubbed surface.

The fireplace flashed green and Harry spun into view. He stepped out of the fireplace toward Hermione.

"What is it, Ron?" he asked, noticing the dark frown on Ron's countenance.

"It's from Mum. There was an attack at the cottage. They're all there now."

Harry snatched the note from Ron, his eyes darting quickly across the page. "We've got to go help them," he announced, handing the note back to Ron, who stuffed in back in his pocket, nodding. Hermione was forced to step out of the way as they trudged back toward the fireplace, tracking soot and ash across the scrubbed wooden floor.

Ron tossed the powder into the fireplace, shouted "The Shell Cottage," and was about to step into it when Harry caught his arm.

"Wait," he said and gestured back toward Hermione, "what about her?"

"She'll be fine here," grumbled Ron, and disappeared into the flames.

Harry smiled lopsidedly at her, "See you later, I guess," he said, and followed his friend.

Hermione stood for a moment in the now deserted kitchen and then, thinking it would be best to keep herself busy while she was alone in a stranger's house, she picked up a broom from the corner and swept the little kitchen until the floors gleamed. Then she washed the dirty dishes that had piled up in the little sink and set them in the appropriate cupboards. As she was putting the last of the dishes away, her stomach growled like a hungry bear and she thought to herself that no one would mind if she ate just a little bit of food while she waited. She was, after all, their guest. So, she fetched some stew from a cold cauldron by the fire and a little loaf of bread from a basket on the counter, and a little cup of water from the pump above the sink, and placed all of these things in a little wooden bowl and on a little wooden plate and in a little wooden cup, all inscribed with different letters. Hermione was so hungry and thirsty, that she ate all of the stew and the bread and drank all of the water.

After she finished picking the crumbs off of the plate, she decided to wander the strange looking house. She wandered up staircases and down to the cellars. She returned to the kitchen and washed her little dishes in the little kitchen sink.

She watched the sun sink through the little kitchen window, and she wondered if her family would go looking for her in the dark forest. She hoped not but had no way of reassuring them, and so she would just have to pray they would assume she was spending the night with Madame Greengrass. The sun was sinking earlier and earlier these days, and it was not so far-fetched that she would lose track of time reading in the cottage in the woods.

Pushing worries she could not assuage from her mind, she wandered through the winding rooms of the oddly proportioned house in search of a bed in which she could spend the night. She did indeed find a room, in which seven little beds sat in an even line against a wall that seemed much too large to belong in the house. At the edge of one of the beds was an open book. Hermione picked up the book, for she craved knowledge the way a starving man craves meat and took the book with her to the bed farthest in the corner. She took off her cloak and folded it at the foot of her bed, and pulled her wand from its pocket. The logical part of her brain said that it would be wisest to give the wand to one of the witches or wizards who had helped her, but the wand had protected her, and so she wanted to keep it safe beside her bed. Perhaps she could learn to use it herself. She laid down in the bed and lit a little candle beside it so that she could read.

The book itself made very little sense to her. It was called _Charms for Young Witches and Wizards,_ and it appeared to be a list of spells and the way to perform them. Hermione was the cleverest girl in her town, and that title was not one bestowed lightly. She read until the candle burned low and then decided to attempt one of the spells she had read about.

She picked up the wand off of the bedside table and very quietly, as though afraid of the words themselves, she said, "Lumos." The tip of the wand began to glow with a gentle white light, weak and wavering at first, like a candle in the wind, but as Hermione grew joyous and confident that she had properly cast the spell, the light brightened until it was as strong as a little sun attached to the tip of the wand. Her wand. Her heart fluttered in her ribs like a happy bird.

She continued reading by wandlight after the candle sputtered out, memorizing charms to try in the morning until her eyelids drooped tiredly. "Nox," she said quietly to her wand, pulled the woolen blankets up around her chin, and fell quickly asleep.

Unbeknownst to her, several floors below, the door opened, and seven pairs of feet trumped doggedly across the scrubbed kitchen floor. One stopped at the table and a voice said, "Oy, mum! Someone's been eating at my place."

"I think," said second man very slowly in a nasally voice, "Yeah, that is! Mum, someone's been eating off of my plate! Ron, was it you?"

"Why would it be me?" Squawked a third voice, which belonged to Ron.

"That's your cup," said a fourth, "And my fork and knife!"

"And my bowl, Ronniekins," said a fifth, which sounded very much like the fourth.

"Don't fight now," Snapped a woman's voice, and all the voices quieted, "You'll wake your sister."

"Would if we could, Mum," Said what was either the fourth or fifth voice, and a sad hush fell over the little group.

"No matter. Off to bed with the lot of you. Now. March!" She shooed them all toward the stairs, which they climbed, each one holding a wand with a glowing tip while they walked.

When they reached the long room which they all shared, a sixth man said, "Hey! Who took my book?"

"It wasn't me," said Ron quickly, "I haven't even been home all day. Been out trying to recapture Bellatrix with you lot, remember?"

"Look," said a seventh voice, Harry's, wearily as he crossed the room toward his bed, "I'm sure we'll get to the bottom of this in the morning, but right now-" But he never finished that sentence, because at that moment, he had looked down at his red-and-gold blankets and seen a girl with wild hair asleep in his bed. "Cor," groaned Harry, "I forgot about her." Louder, to the others, he said, "I think I know who's been using everyone's stuff."

The six other wizards, who had extinguished their wands to get ready for bed, quickly scrambled for their wands. "Who?" demanded the nasally one.

"Her name's Hermione," sighed Harry, "and she's asleep in my bed."

Across the little island country, in a place that Hermione had never dreamed could exist, sat a large and very beautiful manor house, surrounded on all sides by a tall, black iron fence, which itself was more ornate and worth more than anything in Hermione's village. A woman in a black traveling cloak passed through the twisted-metal gates as though they were smoke and continued up the winding brick path. Behind her, metal whimpered as it hardened once again to keep out the unwanted. Ahead of her, snow-white peacocks flapped their wings in soundless terror to escape the footsteps of the woman. Even the countless rose bushes seemed to shy away from the path as she walked.

She reached the front door of the manor itself, and grabbed the twisting serpent knocker and banged once on the front door. Stone gargoyles, with gray tongues lolling around sharp teeth, gazed down at her from the roof and gutters, careful not to be spotted and silent as shadows.

She knocked again on the front door, the noise echoing over and over again into the cavernous interior. The door squeaked open, as if of its own accord, and the woman stepped inside, the hood of her cloak still over her head and hiding her face. She stalked through the entrance hall and into a sitting room, paying no attention at all to the priceless artifacts and splendor that surrounded her.

Once safely in the room, she took off her traveling cloak in one sharp, angry motion and screeched into the silent air, "Draco!" The call echoed around the entire house, and portraits scurried from their frames to get as far away from the voice as they could, a shiver of fear running through them.

After a few moments, she called again. This time, she was rewarded by a fair-haired young man entering her drawing room, a dark robe pulled tightly around his bedclothes and his corn silk hair tousled.

"Good evening, Aunt Bellatrix," he said politely, even though his voice was gravelly with sleep. He bowed low at the waist, and when he stood, she walked toward him, glaring up into his mercurial eyes.

She lifted one hand and raked sharp nails swiftly across Draco's cheek. His neck whipped sideways, but he did not flinch and turned back to look at her, four lines of blood leaking slowly down his cheek.

"She has my wand," hissed Bellatrix, "The muggle bitch took my wand. Where were you today? You were supposed to be my second!"

"I ran into the girl in the woods," he replied evenly, "She hardly seemed a threat. And besides," he drawled, wiping one hand coolly across his face, "I did come to your side in time to save your from the teenaged blood traitors."

She lifted her other hand and scratched across his other cheek. His face was red now, with parallel lines of blood leaking slowly down his cheeks, but still he did not turn away.

"I take it the Dark Lord did not react well to the news of the muggle's escape?"

"He would not even see me," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom, "Without a wand, I am no better to him than those vermin that walk like us! I waited all night and he would not even look at me without a wand!"

"You'll be wanting a new one then, I suppose."

"A new one?" Bellatrix's shriek echoed into the hallway like a keening specter, "A new one? No, idiot boy, I do not want a new one. I want my old one back. And you are going to get it for me."

"My lady," he bowed again.

She brought her hand back as if to claw his face again, but he reached with snake-like reflexes and caught her wrist as it swung toward him.

"You are my mother's sister, my elder and my better," said Draco stonily, "But you will not strike me again."

Bellatrix snarled, and jerked her hand away, rubbing the red ring around her wrist. "You'll catch the muggle bitch and you'll get me my wand."

"And what am I to do with the girl?"

Bellatrix sneered, "Kill her. Kill her and bring me her lungs and her liver, so that I may rejoice in her death."

Draco allowed his eyes to look once around the room, taking in the splendor of his own home. He knew what sort of money had paid for the gilded ceiling and the indigo and crimson carpet. He knew that blood had been the mortar for the bricks and that dark spells had assured his family's place in society. His family, old and pure, had used whatever means had been necessary to assure the family's survival. They had slaved and toiled for generations for their noble status and every galleon in the bank, every emerald in their family crest, was a reminder of the responsibility he had inherited.

A weak constitution and a fear of conflict would not force Draco to turn away from his blood right and responsibility. He bowed low to his aunt, "As you wish, my lady." he said into the carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	5. A Wolf in the Warren

While Hermione slept, she dreamt of parchment burning while a great beast with gray eyes looked on, a snarl twisting its vermillion snout in rage. The sight was frightful, but she was not afraid. She was quiet, inside and out, while the fire popped and the parchment curled into black flowers.

Hermione awoke the next morning to sun streaming in through the little window and a comfortable weight on her chest. She opened her eyes and found herself greeted by Crookshanks' yellow gaze. When he saw that she was awake, he pressed his wet nose against her face and purred quietly. She scratched him lazily behind one ear for a moment as the light spread like a great bird over her bed.

Her mind was filled with the events of yesterday, but in the bright daylight, it was impossible to fear fabled witches and wizards that she'd only learned of the day before.

She sat up slowly, Crookshanks standing and leaping silently to the floor, his bottle-brush tail proud in the air. As she watched him walk silently through the doorway, her gaze slid to the other beds in the room. She realized with quickly warming cheeks that each other bed held a sleeping person, which indicated that the bed she was currently occupying also belonged to someone.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stole from the room as quietly as she could, stopping only to snatch her wand from the bedside table with fumbling fingers.

She stole down the creaking stairs and found herself in the kitchen that she had entered through the evening before.

This time, she was not alone. She saw immediately that she was now in the company of a plump woman with hair as red as blood and skin as white as snow.

"Excuse me, madame," said Hermione, dropping into a deep curtsey as the woman turned to look at her.

The woman beamed at Hermione, taken in by her humble, sensible skirts and the earnestness in her brown eyes. "Hello, dear," she said loudly, and Hermione feared that the boom of her voice would wake the sleepers upstairs. "Glad you're up. Ron and Harry told me all about what happened yesterday. Have a seat. I'll put the kettle on."

The woman said all of this very quickly and with such authority that Hermione could do nothing but obey. She silently slid herself into a chair before the table and looked about the kitchen in the strong morning light. There was a large clock with strange hands and there were dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. Every inch of counter space was covered, and so it took Hermione a moment to notice that there was a knife on the counter beside the sink basin and that it was cutting onions as though an invisible person were holding it.

The red-haired woman herself was standing in front of a large metal kettle, a piece of wood- a wand- in her hand. She tapped the kettle twice and said something that Hermione could not catch and, with that, the kettle whistled happily and a large mug of tea was put on the scrubbed table before Hermione.

Crookshanks brushed himself around her ankles and she took a small sip of the tea.

"You must've had quite a shock, dearie," said the woman, sitting down opposite Hermione with her own mug of tea steaming in her plump hands.

"I'm Madame Weasley, by the way, although you can just call me Molly. I'm Ron's mother." From the freckles across her fair skin and the color of her hair, Hermione had surmised this last bit by herself, but she nodded and responded with a 'how do you do' and her own name.

"I suppose you have some questions about all of this?" Madame Weasley prodded gently.

Hermione took one last long sip of tea before she answered. "If it's not too bold, Madame Weasley-"

"Molly," she gently interrupted.

"Molly," Amended Hermione before continuing, "I have several questions. First of all, I would like to know what happens to magical children who are born of non-magical parents with no one around to teach them spells."

Madame Weasley appeared taken aback by the specificity of this question but responded after a moment. "Well, that depends on where they are, of course. If they are near to other wizarding families, they learn charms, spells, and potions from those witches and wizards."

"And if there is no one near to teach them magic?" Hermione pressed, her heart in her throat.

Madame Weasley looked at her very carefully. "Perhaps they then go without learning how to use their gifts. That is not to say," she hurried on, "that they are any less gifted than those fortunate enough to be born into other circumstances." She looked hesitantly at Hermione for a moment before continuing. "Why do you ask, dear?"

Hermione briefly considered her options and, eventually, pulled out her wand and very confidently said "Lumos." Even with the morning light flooding into the kitchen, the glow of Hermione's wand was visible.

"Where did you get that wand, dearie?" Madame Weasley asked.

"It belonged to that woman from yesterday. The one who was in Madame Greengrass's home." Hermione answered. She muttered a soft Nox and slid her wand back into her sleeve for safe keeping.

"Bellatrix?" Madame Weasley smiled wide and wicked. "So that's why she didn't join the fight. Oh, I am sure she is furious about this."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"You just hang on to that," Madame Weasley said, "You must be very clever to have learned a spell in only one day. Who taught it to you?"

"I read it in a book," Hermione replied, her face flushing with pleasure.

"You learned it simply by reading about it? No one demonstrated it for you?" Madame Weasley looked puzzled at first, but pleased. "You must indeed be very clever."

Hermione did not know how to respond to this or the doubt that was lurking in Madame Weasley's eyes, but she was saved from the awkward conversation by the sound of many feet trump-trump-trumping down the stairs and, one by one, six tousled heads of red hair came into view.

"Morning, mum," said a voice, heavy with sleep, and the others mumbled their own greeting. Hermione's moment with Madame Weasley was ended abruptly, as the older woman bustled around the kitchen, preparing to feed six hungry mouths.

The boys themselves sat or stood around the table, eyeing Hermione with questions etched on their faces.

"So are you a muggle?" Asked one boy.

"George!" Snapped Madame Weasley from beside the fire. "Miss Granger is a witch."

The boys all looked at her with redoubled interest. "Sorry, miss. Ronnie told us last night that you were a muggle."

'Ronnie' was dragged before her, his eyes and face as red as his hair as he mumbled for his brothers to release him.

Hermione smiled to herself. They were a funny group, this lot. Voices floated around her and she was quite pleased simply to listen to the banter and to answer the odd question that was thrown her way. Something that smelled distinctly like bacon fat was beginning to fill up the kitchen and Hermione was peaceful in the crowd.

"Harry!" Said Ron loudly, ducking under the arm of the one called Bill as a black, tousled head came into view, glasses askew, blinking sleepily. "Mum says Hermione's a witch!"

Harry, who did not appear to be completely awake, blinked sleepily between Ron, his mother, and Hermione.

"But she's no training, poor dear," added Madame Weasley, placing a large plate of bacon on the table, and the horde of young men descended upon it like a pack of hungry dogs, each going to the cupboard for their own little plate and cup before sitting in their own seat at the table. Hermione moved from the seat she had occupied to one which had been conjured for her from some other room, and she sat between Ron and Harry.

"Dad will go nutters when he finds out we brought a muggle born witch home," said the one called Charlie through a mouthful of food. "He's obsessed with muggle stuff," he added in explanation as Hermione's eyebrows knit together in confusion.

This puzzled her since so far, she could see very little difference between what happened in non-magical houses and magical ones.

"You'll stay with us, of course," pressed Madame Weasley, "We can't exactly send you home, now that you've Bellatrix's wand and no way to defend yourself. We'll teach you, of course. We cannot let talent like yours go to waste."

"In return, I'll help around the house wherever I can," added Hermione quickly, who was not one to remain idle. She was greedy for the chance to learn. "I'll need to talk to my family first," she added quickly. They certainly thought her lost or worse at this point, and she did not want to risk her family searching the woods for her. There were wolves and worse between those dark trees.

"Yes, yes," said Madame Weasley, and she did not look Hermione in the eye when she spoke. Hermione was not fool enough to speak it out loud to these near-perfect strangers, but Madame Weasley seemed eager to move the conversation on to different topics and Hermione knew not why. So, the conversation drifted away from Hermione while she considered her options.

After breakfast, the seven young men went upstairs to wash up. Madame Weasley informed Hermione that they would all be out looking for Bellatrix today. She had no wand, and so her master thought her less than useless, which meant she might be easy to find.

Hermione nodded mutely as Madame Weasley assured Hermione that she would be safe at the Burrow (the title of this ramshackle abode) because of secret-keeping or some sort of protection spell. The words were as foreign as the stars to Hermione's ears, but she grasped at them in her mind, anyway, eager to learn all that she could.

Before long, all of the Weasleys had left through the fireplace, and Hermione watched them go, carefully noting the little jar of green powder on the mantle and the way they each clearly spoke where they were going: The Ministry, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley. Hermione could only assume that each place had a name attached to it that was unique to it, although she did not know what these names meant or how they were chosen.

And then Hermione was alone in the kitchen of the Burrough and she set quickly about work.

Hermione would be prisoner in no gilded cage and so she threw her red traveling cloak about her shoulders, slid her wand up her sleeve and called Crookshanks to her. He came padding out from somewhere and looked expectantly at her. "We're going home," she explained, although he was only a cat. They couldn't be too far from her home, could they? travel across the country or farther was surely impossible even for witches and wizards.

When she opened her arms, he jumped into them. Without another word, Hermione opened the front door of the cottage and stepped out into the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	6. The Heart of a Wolf

Hermione's eyes dropped like a stone to the ground at her feet and Crookshanks struggled against her arms. He was growing uncomfortable, and so was she. They had been walking for half a day now, over hills and along nameless dirt roads and still she could not find her way home. She briefly considered turning around but was sure that she would not know how to return to the Burrow even if she wanted to.

 _I should have left a trail of stones or string,_ she thought to herself, mentally chastising her own lack of foresight. The fact was, though, that upon setting out, she was not interested in returning, only on getting home.

Now, though, she was tired and she was thirsty and her feet were beginning to ache in her cloth-soled shoes. Crookshanks yowled and dug his nails into her arms.

She inhaled a sharp "Ow!" and then spoke down at her orange traveling companion. "Alright, fine. I'll let you down. Just don't run off."

Grumbling, she set the cat gingerly on the ground before her and, thinking that she could really use a break as well, flopped down onto the grassy knoll where the two weary travelers now found themselves. It was a bright day and the sun was beating down on Hermione's face, making her feel tired and heavy.

She was utterly and irrevocably lost, and that was not something that Hermione Granger was particularly used to.

There was a tugging at her sleeve, and her eyes slid down toward her hand. She watched with some interest as Crookshanks tugged at her sleeve. She was unsure what he was doing and so chose to only watch his progress for now. Quickly, though, it became apparent that he was tugging her wand out of her sleeve. By the time she realized this, though, he had the stick of wood in his mouth and had scampered just out of her reach.

"Crooks!" Grumbled Hermione, sitting up, "Bring that back here this instant!"

It ought to be pointed out that Hermione was not one who generally spoke to animals as though they were capable of understanding human speech. She generally recognized the difference in species and acted accordingly, but she would be a fool not to admit that Crookshanks was the smartest of his kind that she had ever seen and something in his yellow eyes belied an intelligence that, simply put, merited civilized discussion.

Unfortunately for Hermione, now was not one of those times in which Crookshanks could be held to human standards of behavior. Instead of returning the wand to Hermione, he simply sat down on the grass and twitched his tail. After a few seconds, Hermione stood and began to walk toward him, reaching for him with both hands. He, naturally, scampered just out of her reach. She took a few steps nearer to him, and again he retreated.

This process continued for about half an hour, during which time Hermione noted that Crookshanks was leading her away from the road that she had been walking upon and toward a snake-necked river, carpeted with sharp and shining stones. He was only just ahead of her at this point, and she had stopped attempting to retrieve her wand from him, figuring that he would either eventually get bored with the stick or he would see fit to return it to her. Whether he really knew where he was leading them or not, Hermione was unsure. Of course, she was not entirely sure that she had been leading them anywhere in particular, anyway, and so being lead blindly by a cat was not so much a step down as a step sideways.

After about an hour or so of walking, Hermione found herself surrounded by thin fingers of trees, with darker forests up ahead. While these were not necessarily the woods that she knew, they were woods, and the change in landscape was definitely preferable to wandering aimlessly out in the open.

They had been wandering in the woods for less than fifteen minutes when Crookshanks' hackles rose and his back arched. A low growl rumbled in his throat and Hermione's heart quickened in her chest, although she did not immediately know what caused her fear.

There were two amber eyes glowing out of the hollow of a tree, glaring down at them with more interest than an owl generally displayed during daytime hours. Without taking her eyes off of the enormous bird as it emerged from its hollow to get a better look at them, Hermione scooped up her cat, just in case the owl was staring hungrily at him. "Shoo!" she called at the owl. Much to her surprise, the owl obeyed, and took wing, sailing silently back in the direction from whence she had come.

She set Crookshanks down- first retrieving her wand from him- and began following him into the woods, but he was trotting along so quickly that she had to hurry to keep sight of him in the thickening forest.

They continued like this in silence for a while, but Crookshanks stopped suddenly a second time. While Hermione scanned the trees above them for more owls, the cat disappeared. "Crooks?" she asked the quiet forest.

"Unfortunately, no," came a smooth voice, and a figure stepped out from behind a thick tree.

"You again," said Hermione, and fear and annoyance vied for dominance inside of her again.

The man in the wolfish mask paused for a moment, apparently taken aback by her response. Had he expected her to shriek in girlish fear and then to cower from him? If so, he would be sorely disappointed. Hermione was too proud to cower, although she now knew that this man in the mask did not want her to live, just as the woman who was not Madame Greengrass had not wanted her to live.

Eventually, "Yes," he silkily replied, as though he had not paused, "me. Again."

Hermione raised her wand, and the man cocked his head to one side. "So it is you who has her wand." He was speaking more to himself than to her, she knew, and so she did not answer.

She was racking her brain for the spells she had read about the evening before.

As if reading her mind, Mister Wolf asked, "And what will you do with that, Little Red Riding Hood?" She could not see his face for the mask, but she was sure that there was a mocking smile or a smirk hidden under it.

He had called her 'little' again. She drew herself up to her full height, and said with as much conviction as she could muster, "Wingardium Leviosa," she made sure to inflect her voice precisely the way the book had dictated and felt a thrill of triumph rush through her as Mister Wolf's wand lifted out of his hand and rose higher and higher into the trees.

He looked up at it, the pointed mask tilted upwards. "Well, well, well," he said softly, "it seems that you are not as harmless as you first seem, my pet."

There was something in his voice that made her take a step backward. He was unafraid of her.

"Accio wand," he said casually, and the wand dropped like a stone back into his waiting palm.

Hermione took another step backward, her heart hammering against her ribs. The muscles in her legs were tensing, preparing to run.

"Pertificus Totalus," he said in his lazy way, and it was as if Hermione had been turned to stone. She could only watch as Mister Wolf stepped toward her. He did not stop until his lupine mask was only inches from her face. He was inspecting her. From this narrow distance, she could see stabs of yellow in his quicksilver irises. They reminded her of granite or of frost- something immobile and uncaring. His unfeeling gaze took in her hair, traced the line of her jaw and moved down toward the hand that clutched her wand.

"That is not yours," he drawled so softly that she could only just hear the words. His gloved hands did not so much as brush against hers as he pulled the wand easily from her immobile grip.

She wanted to stop him- to scream for him to return what was hers, but still, she could not move.

He took a step back from her and raised his hand to her heart. "Goodbye, my pet," he said without any true feeling in his voice.

Hermione waited, her breath frozen in her lungs for seemingly endless moments as she waited for him to cast whatever spell he would.

After an unmoving age, he dropped his wand and sighed in frustration. "Not here," he grumbled to himself. He ran his hand over the back of his neck in an aggravated gesture. "The light is too dim. I won't be able to do it here."

He was explaining something away to himself, although she did not know what.

"Imperio," he said, and suddenly Hermione was wrapped in cotton and only vaguely aware of what was going on around her. She knew that somewhere very far away, she was walking, but she did not know for how long or to where.

When she resurfaced, she was out of the wood, but she still could not move. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of orange fur disappearing into a clump of dried grass.

"I knew you were with those blood traitors and Potter," he was explaining, spitting Harry's last name with venom. "Perfect Potter, but of course I couldn't get to the house itself, so I've been waiting for one of you to slip up and give your location away. I never expected them to just let you run around on your own." He was speaking freely and had not seemed to notice that she was actually listening to him.

"They didn't let me do anything," she said and he whirled back toward her. For a moment she was sure that she had startled him, but the casual slump returned to his shoulders quickly.

"No," his voice reminded her of silk or of icicles. Something smooth and cold. "I suppose you just walked out the door."

"Yes," she sniffed, insulted that he didn't really consider this an option.

He did not appear to have any response to that, and so she continued, "It's rather rude to cast spells on people, you know," she said testily, "and I haven't even done anything to you."

There was a tense moment of silence before Mister Wolf shook his head, "You are insufferable," he said with wonderment in his voice. He appeared to catch himself suddenly and when he next spoke there was iron in his utterances and nothing else. "And now it ends."

He raised his wand to her heart again and she stood, unable to move, staring blankly at him.

"Imperio," he said again and, from far away, she heard him tell her to close her eyes. She did. An eternity could have passed like that. After days, millennia, or minutes, he told her to turn around, and she obeyed. Eventually, she was told to turn back to face him, to open her eyes, to look angry, to look stupid. She walked for a while, laid down on the ground, acted like she was dead and then the cotton lifted from her brain and he swore violently. His mask was askew and his shoulders were slumped.

She was afraid to test her feet, afraid to move. He turned his back to her. She was beginning to suspect that Death's Shadow had flown on, but she was not yet sure that he would not strike if she ran.

Something warm pressed against her ankles, and she looked down to see Crookshanks staring up at her, his front paws against her knees. He meowed once.

Hermione glanced up at the man in the mask, expecting him to say something about the cat. Instead, he was staring at her. He hissed something she couldn't hear through the mask. The wolf face remained impassive, staring unfeelingly at her, unaware of the seething of the man behind it.

His gray eyes met hers and she heard him mutter, very softly, "Stupefy."

Her body dropped like a stone to the ground at his feet. The cat stared accusingly at him, but he ignored it. He pointed his wand straight up into the air. "Morsmordre," he said, and vanished with a crack like a whip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	7. Wolf Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for implied cannibalism. Please leave a comment if you'd like an abbreviated version of this chapter. If you're more comfortable contacting me privately, I can be reached on Tumblr (vitreous), twitter (@imallteeth).

"My lady," he spoke softly and kneeled before the high backed chair, where she sat stiff-backed as regal as any queen.

"Rise," she hissed, her voice soft and sharp, beckoning him forward with one regal hand. "And show me what it is that you have brought."

He rose and took two brave steps toward his aunt, carefully keeping his eyes to the ornate carpet, and held the box out to her, the wand resting atop it.

She snatched the wand first, a caw of victory escaping her lips and echoing throughout the cavernous room, and for a moment, he feared that he was surrounded by an army of hers, all cackling, all pleased to have their wands back.

"Good," she cooed, "Yes, yes yes yes. You have done well, Draco," she breathed, hardly sparing a glance for his still-bowed form, "He will be most pleased by this. Most pleased that I can rejoin him now!" At that, as if brought to the memory of her anguish and mortification, Bellatrix's head snapped to the box that her nephew still held out to her.

She descended upon him, opening the box and cackling softly to herself, "Good, Draco. Very good. Did she cry, Draco?" Bellatrix's voice softened in dreamy pleasure as she reached out one thin finger to stroke the side of the cold liver tenderly, lovingly, "Did she scream for mummy and daddy and that muggle god they're always babbling on about?" She had adopted a high-pitched baby voice.

When Draco did not respond, "Did she scream, boy?!" She screeched, slamming the lid shut on the box and yanking the young man's head up toward hers by a fistful of his fair hair. "Answer me!"

His eyes narrowed in anger, flashing dangerously. "You would do well to unhand me, Aunt Bellatrix," he said evenly. His tone sounded bored almost, as though this entire conversation were beneath him, but Bellatrix withdrew her hand as though she had been burned.

The witch whirled around, her dark hair snapping behind her in a curtain. "Cissy!" she hissed through bared teeth, training her wand on the witch in the doorway.

"Do not touch my son, Bella," said the new witch, evenly, her tone a biting frost and her wand still trained on her sister.

Bellatrix snarled, "We were talking, Cissy. There was no need for you to-"

"Not. In. My. House." Narcissa cut in, her words snapping like twigs. Her eyes were chips of blue ice and her hair, as fair as her sister's was dark, fell to her waist, perfectly straight and not a hair out of place.

Bellatrix weighed her options and lowered her wand. A smile curled up her gaunt and narrow face, "Fine, Cissy, have it your way, but Draco will join me for dinner. We will dine on our new trophies, the two of us," she glanced at her nephew and he dropped his eyes to the carpet before she could demand an answer of him, "As," Bellatrix licked her lips and slid her eyes back to her sister, who had not yet lowered her wand, her cold eyes glued to her sister's face, "A family." And, with that, Bellatrix pushed past Narcissa and out of the room.

* * *

Hermione could hear voices as if from far away and moving closer to her.

"Enervate," said a voice she faintly recognized, and Hermione sat up, gasping for air, fists flailing.

She felt her knuckles connect with something and the figure nearest to her rolled sideways with a muttered curse. The voice did not match the satin one of the man in the mask, and it was this thought that caused her to calm her breathing and try to take in exactly who was around her.

It was one of the red-haired men who was holding the side of his face and glaring at her, as a nearly identical red-haired man was rolling on the ground a few feet away, laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face.

"Oh," she mumbled, finding her voice, "Sorry. I-I thought you were someone else."

At this, the man she had hit broke into a wide grin, too. "Cor, Hermione," he laughed, "I'd hate to see the sorry bloke you were trying to wail on." He dropped his hand from his face to reveal a bright red, first-sized bump already rising just under his eye. She could already tell that it was going to bruise.

Hermione tried to look appropriately ashamed but was rather proud of the hit. It made her feel capable, and she imagined fondly how just such a bruise would look on the man with the wolf mask. Her lips twitched.

She looked over one shoulder and then the other.

"Did you see him?" She asked the twins breathlessly, trying to collect herself. He couldn't have gone far. Surely she had not been unconscious for very long for the sun had hardly seemed to move in the sky, but the twins only shook their heads in unison.

"Gone, Hermione," said one.

"Long gone," agreed the other.

"Cast that and apparated right out, most like," said the first, and pointed up at the sky. Hermione's eyes followed his finger and she could just make out the faint glowing of green stars against the afternoon light.

"We thought you were dead," said the second twin, "when we saw that."

"Glad you weren't, of course," said the first, "Mum would have a fit if she found out you were dead."

"Anyway, what are you doing out here?" Asked the second, and they both looked at her with appraising blue eyes.

Hermione felt shame heat her cheeks and knew that she had been very foolish to try to leave alone on foot. "I was trying to go home," she mumbled into her skirts, bunching the fabric in her hands.

The twins exchanged looks that contained an entire conversation in a language Hermione could never understand. "We don't think that's such a good idea right now," said one of them eventually, his voice slow and even.

Dread settled like a stone in Hermione's stomach. "Why?" She croaked, sure she already knew the answer.

"We're not at liberty to talk about that, but mum'll explain everything once we get back, alright?"

Hermione did not want to go back. Hermione wanted to go home to her mother and her father and Astoria. She wanted everything to work out fine and nothing to be wrong and for things like witches and wizards to only exist in fairy stories.

But Hermione was a clever girl, and she knew that fear only made the wolf look larger, and so she swallowed down the lump in her throat, and rose to her feet, dusting her skirts and traveling cloak as best as she could.

Something pressed itself against her legs, and she looked down to see Crookshanks circling her ankles protectively, and she felt braver and stood taller. "Right, then. Let's go."

When they reached the borough, the front door flew open and Harry and Ron, closely followed by Madame Weasley and a troupe of her children.

"Are you alright?" Asked Harry, reaching them first.

"Is she ok?" Asked Ron, looking over Harry's shoulder anxiously.

"I'm fine," she said bracingly, looking from one to the other with a tired smile. "Really."

"Where did you go?" Asked Harry.

Hermione was too ashamed to answer, but luckily, just then Madame Weasley reached them and addressed her own sons first.

"Who was it?" Asked the matron, her face tight with worry.

"Hermione," said the twin without the bruise on his cheek.

"No," Hissed Madame Weasley softly, "Who was the mark for?"

The twins shrugged again. "No one was dead, mum. The only person near it was Hermione, and she was just stunned."

"We were lucky, then, that the attack wasn't worse," Madame Weasley said sharply, and her shoulders sagged visibly in relief.

"We think whoever attached her did use the imperius curse on her," said one of the twins, "Tell them what you told us, Hermione. About the bloke with the wand and how you had to do whatever he said."

Hermione had half a mind to say that she hadn't exactly been attacked. It was more like she had been bothered by a smug-voiced overgrown toddler for about an hour or so and then had been knocked out. It was hardly the most traumatic thing that had happened to her so far. And yet, the memory of acrid fear on her tongue, of the sureness of her own death, stilled her voice before she could speak up to defend the man in the wolf mask.

"Were you harmed?" Madame Weasley was asking her, and so she shook her head.

"No, I don't think I am, but I did hit him," she motioned to the twin with the bruise sheepishly, "I didn't mean to," she added quickly as Madame Weasley turned to survey the as yet unnoticed damage done to her own child. "I was waking up and I thought- I thought-"

Her voice trailed off, but that was alright since Madame Weasley had seized the twin by the jaw and was turning his face this way and that way to see the bruise from all angles. "Oh," she said finally, smiling reassuringly at Hermione, "I've got some paste in the kitchen that'll clear that right up no problem. Nothing to worry about."

With that, Madame Weasley began ushering the entire group back into the kitchen but Hermione hung back.

"Madame Weasley," she said softly.

"What is it, dear," said the witch kindly, slowing her pace to walk beside Hermione.

"Why can't I go home?" She asked before her courage could leave her.

The smile dropped from Madame Weasley's face and a look of pity replaced it.

"Just wait until Arthur gets back, Dearie. We'll explain everything then, but perhaps some dinner first. There's a lot to talk about, and no need to do it all at once, is there?"

Hermione wanted to protest, but she knew that it would be in vain, as the witch was already shuffling ahead and into the loud kitchen.

* * *

Dinner was a tasteless affair, but indeed, Arthur Weasley tromped out of the fireplace just as a pink stain was spreading across the horizon and the sun was dipping low and orange in the sky. Madame Weasley and her husband spoke in hushed tones by the fireplace, and Hermione knew that they were talking about her, for they would throw glances her way from time to time.

Eventually, Arthur tromp, tromp, tromped up to her and sat heavily opposite her at the scrubbed wooden table. The seven young men were outside, flying about in the evening sun on broomsticks. Hermione could hear their shouts of triumph and frustration through the little window.

"You're, uh, from the same town as Madame Greengrass, aren't you?" Began Arthur Weasley, and he scratched the back of one ear and glanced to his wife.

"Yes," Hermione responded promptly.

"There was an attack, you know, when the boys-"

"An attack?" Hermione cut in, but her voice was soft, as if saying the words out loud would make them all the more real.

"Uh, well, yes," Arthur Weasley continued.

"Was anyone injured?" Hermione asked, breathless with fear. The faces of her friends flashed before her eyes. Of Astoria and her wide, pale eyes. Of her parents.

She was on her feet before she knew what she was doing, pacing back and forth across the small kitchen. "I want to see it," was all she said.

Madame Weasley stepped forward, "Dear," she said gently, "I don't think-"

Hermione turned her flushed face to the older witch. "No," she said and her voice shook. "No," she repeated, and her voice was strong. "I want to- I have to see what happened. It was- is- it is my home and I want to see it. Now."

"But dear, there are no-"

"Molly," said Arthur, glancing up at his wife, "look at her. She'll just leave again if we don't take her, and this way...this way we'll at least be there for her when she...when she sees. I'll tell you now, though, miss, it isn't a pleasant sight and you don't have to go. You're welcome to stay here as long as you want. If you're half as clever as Molly says you are, you belong in our world, anyway."

Hermione shook her head, not trusting her voice.

Arthur rose heavily from the table. "Perhaps we should wait till morning, after a good sleep, this may all seem-"

"No," Hermione choked out, "No. I want to see now. It...it will be worse, not knowing." Hermione hated not knowing something more than almost anything else in the whole world. Even horror was better when you knew that it was truth. In her heart, she hoped, prayed, and believed that her parents were still alive, that this was a whole, large misunderstanding. It had only been a bit more than a day since she had left her home. The damage could not logically be as severe as this family was making it seem.

"If you're sure." Arthur Weasley held a hand out to her. "You're going to have to side-along apparate if we want to get there before tomorrow morning, so just hold on to my hand, alright? On the count of three. One, two-"

And Hermione felt as though invisible bands were tightening around her chest, forcing her into a tunnel which was much too small for her person, like a badger in a rabbit warren. She could not breathe. She was drowning. Yet, just when she was sure that she would break under the pressure and that she would surely die, the pressure was gone and the bands had vanished. She was still gripping Arthur Weasley's hand much too tightly, but the smell of the black forest on the edge of town was filling her nose. She was in a copse of trees at the edge of the woods and she could just see the light of the setting sun bathing the fields that stood between the woods and the village in golden light. She was home.

And yet.

There was something smoky and metallic in the air and, as if in a trance, she dropped Arthur Weasley's hand and strode out of the wood. He may have told her to stay covered, and he shouted a spell after her. It hit her, of course, and she felt as though cool water were sliding over her body. When she glanced down at her hand, there was only a faint shimmer. She dropped her hand and strode onward, toward town.

She walked the dirt roads of her hometown, looking in dark windows for a sign of a familiar face, but there was nothing. Not a footprint, not a sigh from a horse or a cry from a baby. It was dead, shadowed in the fading light and suspended between reality and dream in the way only ghost towns can be. She sped up, her feet crunching quickly as she turned down one street and then another until she came to the home that she shared with her parents and Astoria.

She turned the knob of the door and it swung open silently.

There was nothing. There was no sign of a struggle. No sign of death. Two sets of dishes were laid out for dinner and there were bones in a little heap on the floor, left over from the meal that the two had shared. She walked into the dark little house, her feet creaking on the worn floorboards.

She went to her parents' room, first. There was nothing out of place there, no valuables missing, no blood on the walls, but there was a faint smell of something sinister, almost like rot, that tickled Hermione's nose and told her that something wicked had happened here. Next, she went to the room that she shared with Astoria and, again, nothing was out of place.

There was, however, a little roll of parchment on the pillow of Hermione's bed. With trembling hands, she reached out and unfurled it, her nut-brown eyes scanning quickly across Astoria's handwriting.

_Hermione-_

__

__

_I don't know what's happening here. Men in masks came into town early today and people are eating each other. Parents are killing their children and eating them. Then they're eating each other. I'm frightened, Hermione, very frightened. Please find me. Please save me before they get me, too._

That was all the note said, and the writing was splotched and smeared in places where Astoria had not let the ink dry before swiping her hand over it.

Her hands trembled so violently that the parchment fell back to the bed. Hermione was not crying, was not feeling much of anything in particular, but that was because of the pounding of blood in her ears. She was aware that she was breathing and that her heart was beating and there was no room for anything else. She walked slowly back down the stairs and found Arthur Weasley scanning the darkening kitchen with the light from his wand.

 _Lumos_ , she thought absently. _That's the name of the spell_.

He looked in her direction when he heard her feet on the stairs, and muttered a spell to make her visible again.

"They were eating each other." She said flatly in a voice that did not sound like her own.

"They were under the imperius curse, the lot of them," Arthur corrected gently, "They were muggles. They didn't know- couldn't know."

"They were cannibals," Hermione felt as though someone had scooped out her organs and left only her hollow shell behind.

"They were cursed," corrected Arthur sternly, "They were not themselves when this happened."

"Astoria," began Hermione, looking around the little kitchen that had seemed so safe only moments before and her eyes landed on the little pile of bones under the table, brown from cooking and black from shadow. Realization dawned on Hermione then, and her hand flew to her mouth and her legs buckled underneath her, sending her to the floor. "Oh my god," she gasped and crawled towards the bones.

"Oh my god," she repeated as she sank under the table beside the little pile. The bones were not as little as she had first supposed them to be, longer than those of a rabbit, yet still finer than those of a cow. With trembling fingers, she pulled what looked like it had once been a femur from the pile, her eyes tracing the scrapes of a knife along the bone, the scraps of meat still stuck near the top where the diner had not been able to pick the bone clean.

"They killed themselves, you know. When the curse was lifted. We had a few at- at the hospital- but even those who made it, who survived, are all dead now."

Hermione registered the words without any reaction. "I want to bury," Hermione said and then her voice died in her throat and she choked.

"Sorry?" Said Arthur, kneeling down to get a better few of her under the table. When he saw the bone that she was cradling to her chest like a baby, he gasped and swore. "Ah. We missed one, then."

"Astoria," Hermione barked, and then clarified. "It's not 'one'. It's Astoria." Hermione's voice cracked and a dry sob shook her body, but her eyes were still dry, glowing with fury and anguish. Her lips were white as ash. White as snow. "I will bury her." She said, and, gathering the bones into a neat little pile, she stood and marched back up the stairs to retrieve something to transport them all in, for there were too many for just her two hands alone to carry.

* * *

She wrapped the bones in Astoria's favorite scarf. It was muslin, a gift from a boy two summers ago who spoke of far-off Spain and France. It seemed fitting, somehow, for the dark smudges that were once Astoria Greengrass were tucked into the earth with this gossamer thing. She did not let Arthur Weasley help to dig the hole nor to cover it again, and after she had patted the last bit of dirt into place and bade her friend a good rest, she stood and looked up at the tree. It was a Juniper tree, and Hermione had chosen this spot because Astoria had loved this tree the most of all of the trees in the yard.

If this had been a fairy tale, this was the point when the magical bird would fly out of the earth and right all of the wrongs that had happened thus far. If this were a fairy story, Hermione would be whisked back to her mother and father and Astoria by a handsome prince on a white horse, but this was not a fairy story. No, this was not the world of fairy stories and childhood. Not anymore. This was a world in which witches and wizards made parents eat their own children and then moved on like a plague to infect some other town. There was no fairytale ending to be wrung out of this. There was no getting blood from a stone.

"You said it was the imperius curse?" She asked.

"Yes," replied Arthur Weasley, surprise evident in his tone.

"That's the same curse the man in the mask used on me today," she said, although she wasn't sure why this was important to say.

Arthur Weasley nodded and in the bruise-blue of twilight, she could just see the motion. "Death Eaters like that one. We call it one of the unforgivable curses. A horrible thing, really, but you were lucky this morning. Whoever attacked you could have done much worse." He gestured with his chin at the town around them.

Hermione turned with steel in her eyes to Arthur Weasley, "I want to fight them," she said with cold resolve, "I want to make sure this never happens to any other town." She linked her arm in his and waited while he counted to three. When the invisible bands tightened around her chest, she wondered if that's how they felt- everyone she had ever loved- when hopelessness fell upon them in human shapes behind masks. She wondered if that is what death felt like.

She was given her own room that night, and Arthur Weasley's assurance that he would retrieve her clothes and books the next day. She was on the third floor and was assured that the banging she was hearing was only the ghoul in the attic. She sobbed herself to sleep with only that mythical, unseen noisemaker to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Little Red Riding Hood


	8. How to Greet a Wolf

For seven days and seven nights after Hermione buried her stepsister, she cried and spoke to no one. For seven days and seven nights after she cried, she sat silently at a little seat by a little window in the kitchen, watching Crookshanks hunt for gnomes in the backyard and spoke to no one. At the end of the seven days, Hermione rose from her little seat by the little window because no matter how sorry and sad she was, Hermione was not going to waste her time in mourning. So she asked Mr. Weasley if he might be so kind as to assist her in procuring a new wand and some books for learning.

The next morning saw Hermione Granger walking down a narrow cobbled alley, surrounded by red-headed wizards. Madame Weasley had awakened especially early that morning to help Hermione prepare for the trip, since, as the matriarch of the family had so eloquently put it, "This is the first time you've left the house in two weeks and you smell something awful." So Hermione was freshly scrubbed, scourgified, and dressed in dark green robes. "They're Ginny's," Madame Weasley's voice quavered, "and she's a bit taller than you, but you can't just wear the same cloak and muggle dress all the time. I mean, you've that trunk full of muggle things, but you'll stand out too much in those. It's best to wear robes and a cloak, I think, going somewhere so public. I'll have the cloak as good as new by the time you return, but you can't wear it out. It attracts too much attention, anyway." Even her hair was behaving, wound up in a ladylike knot that Hermione had never managed to attain without the use of potions and spells. Despite this, her eyes were dull with sadness and her cheeks ashen with loss. She did not know that she was lovelier than she had ever been before in her life because she did not consider her appearance when weighed against the ache of losing everyone she had ever known.

Their first stop was to the wizarding bank, Gringotts, where Mr. Weasley exchanged all her family's muggle money for wizarding currency, large and shining in the morning sun.

"Why is Harry not accompanying us?" she asked of Ron as they walked down the lane.

"Well," Ron shifted from one foot to the other, "Harry's a bit different from the rest of us, isn't he?"

"Obviously," Hermione countered, "But I hardly think that adoption-"

"No, Harry isn't adopted. You see, his parents were killed by You-Know-Who."

She gave him a long look down her nose, "I don't know who, Ronald."

"No, You-Know-Who. It's what we call him."

"Who?" Hermione asked, feeling very confused.

Ron looked sharply from side to side before leaning in to whisper against the shell of her ear, "Voldemort," and then he shuddered like the name had left him with a chill, despite the warm sun overhead.

Hermione did not think that a name was something to be afraid of, and she told as much to Ron.

"Yeah, Harry says the same thing, and so did Dumbledore, but everyone knew he was a bit daft."

Hermione asked who Dumbledore was and so Ron told her that he was the greatest wizard who had ever lived, and how Harry had spent most of his growing-up years shuffled between his father's two best friends until Dumbledore had taken him on as an apprentice about a year ago, but the apprenticeship was cut short when a group of death eaters, lead by someone named Draco Malfoy, invaded Dumbledore's estate and murdered him in cold blood.

When Hermione asked who Draco Malfoy was, Ron scowled and looked very cross and informed her that Draco Malfoy was, in fact, "A fat-headed, ferret-faced git with more gold than guts and an inbred, elitist ferrety face. You'd know if you'd met him. He's an absolute wretch and he's always foul."

Given this information, Hermione could only imagine a giant, rotund ferret curled around a mound of gold coins the way dragons in her stories hoarded treasure.

"So," Ron continued, "Anyway, now Harry lives with us, but we keep it quiet because half the wizarding world thinks that he's their savior and the other half want him dead."

Hermione nodded like all of it made sense, even though it didn't.

And so, after picking out her new wand at a shop called Ollivander's, Mr. Weasley took her along to a bookshop called Flourish and Blott's while the rest of the Weasley sons disappeared into another store across the way called Quality Quidditch Supplies, which Hermione personally had not a feather of interest in visiting.

Mr. Weasley graciously left her free reign to peruse the books at her leisure, and so she strolled between the shelves of books, running her fingers along the spines of new tomes. For the first time in fourteen days, she felt a spark of life awaken inside of her. Here was knowledge. Here was how she would fight the force that had devoured her family like a horde of hungry wolves. Her hand hesitated between Advanced Potions Making and An Advanced Guide to Potions and Tinctures, unsure which one to grab, when she sensed the presence of a pair of eyes upon her person.

Turning, she found a tall wizard watching her with a curious expression on his face. He was tall- taller than she and Harry were, but shorter than Ron. His hair was pulled back in a green velvet ribbon and he wore robes of such an elegant cut and such luxurious material, she at first suspected him to be a prince. His pale eyes were bored, but his eyebrows were raised slightly.

It the instant that their eyes met, Hermione felt something roll over and crack inside of her. Never before had she known that she preferred light hair to dark, or eyes as pale as winter skies and skin as white as lightning until this man stood before her. She had not considered that she would rather a man in deep black robes, held up by rigid posture until the hem of his cloak swayed around his black boots. She had never thought if she would rather long and narrow fingers over short thick ones until her eyes traced his digits, long and thin as spider legs, elegant as a tree branch. It was not love that she experienced at that moment, but rather something greater- an awakening of a sense of newness and adventure, a rekindling of the notion that there could be pleasantness in this strange and brutal world. He seemed familiar to her somehow, but she knew not why.

His features schooled themselves into a neutral expression as soon as he realized that she was observing him, and the speed and ease with which he masked his emotions thrilled her. He was a puzzle, then, and she relished in solving puzzles. She ardently wished to know who this elegant stranger was, and so she inclined her head and performed a quick curtsey before him.

No sooner had she executed this gesture than he was before her at once. "That is not how we do things here," he warned, his voice low and venomous, "If you wish not to be found out for what you are, you will refrain for vulgar gestures such as that."

His breath was warm and sweet on her face and she blinked up at him as he towered over her, but she was not afraid, for his voice was soft and familiar, despite its biting tone.

He seemed to compose himself suddenly and straightened. "Here," he said, still softly, still bitterly, "We bow. From the waste, and you are right to bow to me," he added and glanced at the bookshelf and the books she had been choosing between. "Which were you looking at?" He demanded.

Hermione has been many things in her time, but trained to answer like a dog on command has never been one of them. "Is buying books not 'how we do things,' either?" she asked in a saccharine voice, "Should I just glare at them like they have committed some cardinal sin against my person, or is that exclusively reserved for other people?"

"You would do well to learn more respect to your betters," he commanded, an imperious snarl curling up the side of his face.

"Oh, how strange that this should be your reply," she reported, keeping the high, sweet tone, even as she matched his glare, "For I believe that you would do well to learn the same!"

He drew himself up to his full height, but instead of feeling fear as her brain told her she ought to, she felt exhilarated and took a bold step toward him, narrowing the gap between them again and she prepared her next round of verbal barbs.

"Hermione, where are- Oh, Lord Draco."

Hermione turned to see Mr. Weasley at the end of the row of books, looking coolly over at her companion.

When she turned back, the pale-haired man was several paces farther from her, and although his cheeks were still tinged a pale pink, his glare was cold and appraising as it fell upon her guardian.

"Weasley," he intoned, his voice bored and disinterested, "I should have known. What's this filth you've brought with you into my bookstore.

Obviously she's not another one of yours, as she lacks the normal, what would one call it," he paused gesturing in the air as is grasping for

words, "Ah yes. Stench."

Mr. Weasley's ears were beet-red, but his only reply was, "This isn't your bookshop, Malfoy."

The man raised one pale eyebrow, "Isn't it? It appears to be located on my street, on my property. I fail to see how the title over the doors holds any meaning while I hold all of the keys."

This was not the same man as before, whose urgent whispers she did not fear. While she still was not frightened by him, she was confused by his sudden coldness and the way he never once looked at her while he spoke. It was very rude.

"And you failed to answer my question- who is this?" He gestured toward Hermione without looking at her.

"A cousin. Visiting from the continent." Mr. Weasley said without missing a beat.

"And does she have papers to prove it?" Lord Malfoy sneered.

Mr. Weasley had no reply for this, Hermione knew, for she had no papers at all to prove even her true identity. Nor could she prove she was from the continent, at any rate, as she had never learned any language besides English and a bit of Latin from the Greengrass witch while she lived.

The silence stretched on for much to long before finally, the pale-haired man rolled his eyes and lifted a large silver pocket watch to his face, "I don't have time for this today, Weasley, but I suggest you get your papers in order before taking jaunts into proper wizarding society again." He turned to go and as if on impulse, turned back to look at Hermione, "Oh, and by the way, if you were planning on getting any book besides Advanced Potions Making, you're an idiot and deserve the shoddy recipes you'll get." With that, he had swept out of the narrow shelving and, in his wake, the room seemed to perceptibly warm a few degrees.

Mr. Weasley let out a breath she hadn't realized he'd been holding and adjusted his glasses with a shaking hand. "We got lucky there," he informed her, "Come on, let's get you back home before someone else asks for your papers.

"He was Draco Malfoy," she asked as she jogged to keep pace with Mr. Weasley, a great sack full of books shrunk to nothing and safely in his pocket.

"Yes," was the tight-lipped answer.

"The one who killed Dumbledore?" she couldn't stop the question from leaping from her mouth.

Mr. Weasley glanced sideways at her and slowed when he realized that she wasn't keeping up. "No," he said slowly, "he didn't kill Dumbledore. He was ordered to, by you-know-who, but in the end, he didn't kill him. Sev- another Death Eater did."

"And Death Eaters murdered my family," she supplied then, a lump rising in her throat. Mr. Weasley answered in some way, but she could not hear over the pounding of blood in her own ears. Her vision blurred and she did not know if she wanted to cry or to vomit, knowing how close she had been to murdering scum without realizing it. Oh! If only she had known. She should have killed him where he had stood! She should have rung his fine and noble neck between her two hands until there was no life left in him! Next time, for there surely would be a next time, she would know her magic and her spells and she would kill him with her own hands. He would pay for what he had done to everyone she had ever loved, and he would pay in blood.

* * *

Lord Draco Malfoy rounded the corner into an alleyway behind the bookstore, his robes billowing out like a great black bird around him, and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. What was the idiot girl doing walking around? He should have killed her when he had the chance since she seemed so willing to throw her own life away on anything as trifling as a book. Any witch at all should have known that much, at least.

Oh, if only he'd had the nerve to kill her the first time!

If his aunt ever learned that a dead little witch was parading around in Diagon Alley like nothing had ever been wrong in the world, it would be his organs on a platter beside hers! He could only hope that the idiot Weasleys kept her better hidden from now on, or the next time that he saw her, he really would have to do her in, if only to save his own hide!

Feeling secure in his resolve, he turned on the spot and disapparated back to the manor.

* * *

For seven times seven weeks, Hermione did not leave the grounds of the Burrow. For seven times seven weeks, she practiced her magic. For seven times seven weeks, she drilled charms and potions and transfiguration with the help of Madame Weasley and all of her new books. For seven times seven weeks, she pored over books on magical history and wizarding lore and runes modern and ancient and all that was known of arithmancy. For seven times seven weeks, she practiced dueling with Harry, who had fought against the infamous Voldemort more than once in his short life. For seven times seven weeks, she really did try to get the hang of flying on a broomstick, but while she excelled in all these other endeavors, for seven times seven weeks, she failed to get more than a few feet off the ground without crashing spectacularly.

"It's alright," Harry said bracingly, hovering a few feet over where she had just landed in a painful heap. He held her broom in his left hand, guiding it through the air like a docile horse- which it most certainly wasn't. She winced as she reaffirmed that she had not in fact broken her bottom in this most recent tumble.

He floated a bit lower. "We'll try again."

But Hermione was only half listening to him. "Ronald Weasley," she ground out even as she felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment, "If you don't stop laughing this instant, you will be sorry."

"I'd do as she says, little brother," called George up to Ron as the twins walked out onto the Quidditch field.

"Yeah," Fred agreed, "the thing she does with those birds is nasty." He shuddered but tossed Hermione a wink.

"And a nose-breaking right hook when startled," George winked at her, too.

Ron, who had been watching Harry in his valiant attempt to coax Hermione into the air from one of the raised goalposts, floated gracefully back towards them. Tears of mirth still leaked from his eyes, but he was trying to get his giggles under control, so Hermione only sent a half-hearted glare in his direction, and not a flock of angry budgies.

* * *

Hermione was most at home with her books and cat, wedged between her little bed and the wall. When she did not want to be found, she hid herself in the room of Ginevra Weasley. Ginevra- or Ginny as she was normally called- had been taken as a captive by a band of roving snatchers a few months before the wolves ever arrived in Hermione's little village, and she was rescued shortly before Ron and Harry had found Hermione, and yet no one had been able to wake her. She did not appear injured in any way, but she would not be roused by any magic or medicine the family could think to try. When Hermione did not want to be sought out as an extra player on an impromptu Quidditch team or to be Mr. Weasley's compendium of information on the non-magical- muggle- world, she would steal on small and silent feet into the little room, decorated with fanciful paintings and prints of broomsticks and magical beasts that moved within their frames as though they were alive.

Hermione was fascinated with the silently sleeping girl, with her hair red as roses, red as blood, and her skin as fine and pale as the best ivory- an undisturbable beauty. Hermione longed for a female companion, for she still felt the loss of Astoria like a hole in her chest. Ginny Weasley was a beauty, although if her family were to be believed, she did not purport herself as such. Still, Hermione wondered if, between Astoria and Ginny, she would only ever know preposterously beautiful girls her own age. This was a bitter pill to swallow for Hermione, who had always known that she excelled in other, less physical, arenas instead.

Sometimes, Harry would come and join her in sitting beside the sleeping girl, and he would stare upon her sleeping form with an adoration so raw and violent that Hermione wondered that the girl did not bruise under the passion of it. Hermione wondered if anyone would stare at her that way and, although she doubted it, she still wished that someday a time would come when she would matter so ardently to another. She had begun to suspect, by this point, that the Weasleys held hopes that she would one day marry Ron, but the very notion of that was, while not repulsive, exactly, certainly not ideal, either. More than anything, the prospect of marrying Ron Weasley would seem like she was giving up on a world that had only just begun to make sense to her- it would be a settling into domesticity when the world was still so new to her, having never traveled beyond the edges of her wood before this point.

"She's been like this for more than a year. Four hundred and twelve days." He told her, not taking his eyes off of the gentle rise and fall of Ginny's chest, her long poppy-red hair falling across her pillows in shining waves.

"You've been counting the days," Hermione replied. It wasn't a question, but she blinked rapidly in mild surprise.

He did not bother to reply, but reached out and fluffed Ginny's pillows.

One lazy afternoon while Hermione was reading a potions book in the chair beside Ginny's bed she came across something both miraculous and curious. She found herself reading about something known as "The Draught of Living Death":

" _The Draught of Living Death brings upon its drinker a very powerful sleep that can last indefinitely. This draught is very dangerous if not used with caution. While extremely difficult to brew, its effects are well known throughout the wizarding world. This is an extremely dangerous potion. Execute with maximum caution. Ingredients include…_ "

Hermione's eyes scanned quickly over the list of ingredients and the various ways that the potion must be stirred to reach completion, but what she was most interested in was this:

" _With smaller people, house elves, and various other small to medium-sized magical creatures, recommended dosage for suspended animation is 1-3 drops. For larger wizards and creatures, as many as five drops might be used, but DO NOT exceed 10 drops, for fear of the taker falling into a permanent sleep. Should an overdose occur, phoenix tears might be ingested at any point in order to immediately reverse the effects of the potion. _"__

____

____

Hermione jumped to her feet as though the chair had burned her. Crookshanks lifted his shaggy head to stare questioningly at her.

"Harry," she called out even before she had left the room, for Harry was her closest confidant within the house.

He poked his head around the door frame, his glasses crooked on his nose, "What is it?" He asked.

"Harry," she could hardly contain her excitement, "Is there any way to test for potions? In a person, I mean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: The Firebird and a bit of Sleeping Beauty.


	9. Wizard, Wolf, and Cat

"And only Phoenix tears can break the spell!" Hermione excitedly announced to the table full of Weasleys (and one Potter). It had been less than half a day since she had tested Ginny for the draught of the living death and shared her findings with Harry. All at once, the group around her began to chatter like excited squirrels.

"What news!" Called Mr. Weasley, clapping his hands with excitement.

"But wherever shall we find a phoenix?" Fretted Madame Weasley.

"Yes," echoed Bill, the eldest son. "The only one I know of in existence was Dumbledore's bird."

"Indeed," added Charlie, the second eldest, "and Fawkes has been missing since Dumbledore's death."

"Perhaps they will have phoenix tears for sale in Diagon Alley," inquired Percy, the third eldest.

"Are you kidding?" Laughed Fred and George, the fourth and fifth eldest.

"We've got to be able to find them somewhere," pondered Ron, the sixth eldest.

"We'll find Fawkes," determined Harry, who wasn't a son at all, but loved as one all the same.

"It will be a long search," warned Mr. Weasley, his expression darkening.

"And dangerous, with these Death Eaters everywhere," cautioned Madame Weasley, her hand flying to her mouth to trap her fear before it flew out of her like a spirit.

"I cannot spare the time to go," explained Bill, "I am to be wed in half a year's time, and cannot spare even a moment for this quest."

"Nor can I," replied Charlie, "For the Death Eaters grow in ranks every day. I must be here to fight their numbers. Unless there are dragons where you are going, for then I might take exception."

"And I am much too busy with work," chimed Percy.

"We can't go," chimed Fred.

"We can't leave our little shop for that long," added George, for the twins had just invested a tidy sum of gold in a shop of tricks and trinkets in Diagon Alley, although Hermione had never seen it.

"I can go," said Ron. "She is my sister, and it's not like I'm doing anyone any good here."

"I'll go too," affirmed Harry, with a nod of his head, and no one dared to challenge him, for love burned like a righteous blade behind his proclamations and no force on heaven or earth could shake him from this task.

"And you can't go without me, obviously," Hermione added, "We won't be able to use much magic while we travel, without attracting too much unwanted attention, and the two of you alone wouldn't survive a week without my help."

And no one could argue with this for it was clear and apparent that Hermione was many times cleverer than any witch of her age that any had ever met.

And so it was decided that Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger would set out in a fortnight in search of a firebird to save Ginny Weasley.

* * *

When they left the house at sunrise with packs on their backs and their bellies full of Madame Weasley's cooking, Ron was in the lead, trudging dutifully ahead of Harry, while Hermione followed still behind him, Astoria's red cloak draped across her shoulders and Crookshanks walking at her heels, his tail perfectly straight into the air.

That evening they sat around a bright blue fire Hermione conjured and Ron rubbed his aching feet while the others simply stared into the flames.

"Where did you even learn that?" Asked Ron. "You always know the most interesting spells," and it sounded almost like a complaint.

"A book I found in your house, Ronald. And might I add that you would be able to do it, too, if you bothered to read something every now and then."

"No one reads like you do, Hermione. No one in the whole world."

Hermione didn't know what to say to that, and so she simply stroked her hand across Crookshanks back and stared into the fire.

On the second day, Ron and Harry walked side by side, and Hermione stopped from time to time to collect small handfuls of edible mushrooms or berries that she recognized and that evening, they made a mushroom soup and went to bed full and happy.

On the third day, Ron began to complain about the soreness in his feet and in his back. That night Hermione worked a pebble out of Crookshanks' foot and rubbed essence of dittany over the shallow cut.

"Why can't we just apparate?" Complained Ron as he rubbed his feet.

"Because," explained Hermione for what felt like the thousandth time since their journey began, "They'll have laid detection wards over the entire forest since they seem to know roughly where your house is now." She did not need to mention that the Death Eaters only knew where the Burrow was because of her rash decision to walk out into the open all those months ago. Ron had brought that up on his own earlier and the less-than-gentle reminder of her family's death had opened like a fresh wound in her heart. This was actually the first she'd spoken to him since his thoughtless comments earlier.

"We aren't even sure they've done that," Ron mumbled. "You're the only one who seems to know that wards like that even exist, and you're not even a proper witch."

The next day Hermione carried Crookshanks until her arms shook and then Harry carried him for the rest of the day. Ron lagged behind and did not speak, only stared sulkily at the backs of Harry and Hermione's heads.

On the fifth day, Hermione shrank two pairs of her own socks and transfigured them into little shoes, which she slipped on to each of Crookshanks' four feet. Although he was still not well enough to walk on his own, he seemed grateful for the little boots and purred as he rubbed his head against Hermione's hand in thanks.

The sixth, seventh, and eighth days passed much the same. Before sunrise on the ninth day, she woke to the sound of shouts.

"You're acting like an idiot!" Harry barked.

"We should have found something by now," came Ron's surly reply.

"We're looking for a _bird_ , Ron! You know— a thing with wings that flies around wherever it wants."

"I was just hoping that, well," Ron trailed off.

"That what?" Harry snapped. He was pushing Ron past the limits of a normal argument. Hermione thought she ought to intervene, but she was too curious to see what would happen to interfere.

"That Dumbledore had given you some kind of hint or something."

There was a silence then that was so tense Hermione could hear the crackle of magic between them. She was on her feet with her cloak strapped around her neck in an instant. Crookshanks raised his head to watch her.

"Dumbledore was dead before Ginny was even attacked, Ron. Sorry, but dead people don't talk to me if that's what you mean."

"You were his apprentice," accused Ron. "The bird was supposed to be yours now. I want to know why it didn't want to stick with you. What's wrong with you that makes you-"

"Stop it." Hermione burst from the tent between them, her hands akimbo. "Both of you. You're acting like-"

"If you think it's taking too long, then you can go. No one's making you stay." Harry's words cut right through hers.

"Maybe I will." Ron sniffed. "Hermione, let's go."

She turned to look at him, her mouth hanging open slightly. "Excuse me?"

"Or do you want to stay with him?" Ron gestured at Harry, a look of utter disdain on his bright red face.

"Ron," she tried gently, raising her hands in a placating gesture, "we're doing this to save your sister. We can't just-"

"Fine," Ron snapped then. "No. It's fine. I got it. Have fun, you two." and he turned and trudged into the woods, away from them.

Hermione stood, mouth hanging wide, as daylight began to fill up the clearing around them.

Harry swore quietly to himself. "Well, that's it, then. Come on, Hermione. We've got to-"

But Harry's words seemed to break the spell that was hanging over her and she darted off into the woods. If only she could catch Ron before he got too far away, then she could talk some sense into him and they could continue on like nothing had happened. Maybe he would even apologize for acting like such a boneheaded troll. No, that was probably still asking for too much. "Ron!" she called out.

There was a crack like a whip, somewhere before her in the trees and Hermione nearly screamed in shock at the sound.

* * *

The Young Lord Malfoy was lounging in his favorite chair and reading peacefully when the alert for the wards around the woods in the south went off. The gently ringing bell meant that someone had apparated. He reluctantly slipped a feathered bookmark between the pages and strolled unhurriedly over to a sprawling map on the table in the center of the library.

Forsooth, a small red dot blinked over a patch of wood he knew was rather near to the Weasley hovel, which meant that it could easily be one of those blood traitors who had set off the alarm. He considered, briefly, whether he should send an owl to his Aunt or one of the others in the higher ranks, but there was a chance that the wards still sometimes misfired or it might have been a solitary figure who would now be too far away to trace, and there would be hell to pay if he alerted them for nothing. On the other hand, if he apprehended a member of the resistance on his own or, even better, managed finally to kill one, then he would be amply rewarded for his efforts.

He fetched his cloak and his mask with a lazy flick of his wand and, once both were securely fastened to his person, he turned on the spot and disappeared with hardly a sound.

* * *

Hermione took a moment to recover from her shock before shooting out a foot and kicking a nearby root in frustration. He had disapparated rather than face her, the idiot man-child! She had just turned to begin to make her way back towards Harry and their camp when a sudden thought came upon her. What if they had been right to worry that disapparation would catch the eye of the Death Eaters? If that were the case, then surely they would be upon her in moments, for she was surely very close to where Ron had been.

Thinking quickly, she unclasped her cloak and pulled her wand from the pocket of her skirts. As quietly as she could, she cast a disillusionment charm over the bright red fabric, and the cloth shimmered like rippling water before she appeared to be holding nothing at all. She whirled the cloak back around her shoulders, and pressed her back into the trunk of a thick tree, just off the path.

No sooner had she done so, then she heard the crunch of leaves under soft boots. She held her breath as a tall figure strode between the trees, a long green cloak spreading out behind him as he walked, unhurried, to where she had been only moments before.

He turned first one way, and then the other, and Hermione saw then the delicate lines of a wolfish face she recognized. Her breath hitched, for it was the Death Eater who had perhaps saved her in the woods on her way to visit Madame Greengrass all those months ago, and the very same Death Eater who had not killed her when she was sure that he would. Had he been one of the Death Eaters who had attacked her home and killed everyone she loved? Although she knew not why, she doubted it. Perhaps it was that he had not killed her any of the times when it would have been easy for him to do. He did not seem capable of taking a life.

In fact, he had in him a mercy that she could understand, even if she still could not trust it. No, she would not kill this Death Eater in vengeance because she did not believe that he had truly wronged her. Had he been Draco Malfoy, or any of the other nameless, faceless monsters, it would have been different. But few were the days that went by when she did not think about the series of lucky coincidences that had led to her outliving everyone she had known her whole life, and it was impossible to consider such things without thinking about this snarling mask.

He turned, suddenly, and looked in the direction from which Hermione had come and for one second, she was absolutely certain that he was sniffing out her path, but then a small creature strolled into view, and the man in the mask raised his wand.

Hermione raised hers, too, and pointed it at the Death Eater's back, for his wand was trained on none other than Crookshanks, who seemed to have come looking for Hermione. She would kill the Death Eater before she would let him harm her cat, and perhaps even if that were not the issue at hand, she should rid the world of him, anyway. He was a Death Eater, and she should not take for granted that he wanted her in this world, despite his strange mercy. She had read about a killing curse before. She knew the words, but she also knew that if she were to say it, she would have to _mean_ it for it to work, and she did not want to risk giving away her location with a spell that wouldn't do its job properly.

Before she could reach a decision, the man in the mask tucked his wand back into the sleeve of his robe, crouched down, and held one gloved hand out for the cat to sniff. "Hello, again," he said to the cat, and his voice was rich and deep.

Crookshanks mewed in reply and pressed his head against the outstretched hand.

"I take it that you've decided to like me then," said the man, and tickled the cat under the chin with one hand while he replaced his wand in its holster with the other. "I suppose that there really is no accounting for taste. You belong to that idiot girl, don't you?" he asked.

Hermione was affronted at this, for she knew that she was the 'idiot girl' who was being mentioned, but she also knew that it would be foolish to say something about it now and also she was curious about what he would say or do next.

"What are you wearing, cat?" The Death Eater asked, taking one of Crookshanks little paws delicately in his large hand. "Are those...are those boots?" He spluttered. He could not believe his eyes! Here was a cat wearing little boots. Surely, now he had seen everything. He threw his head back and laughed. The laugh was pleasant enough, but the sound bubbling out through the cold, snarling mouth of the mask made it echo eerily through the woods. "Well, you are a dapper little sir, aren't you, Master Cat? Here," he raised his wand again and said "Scourgify," and tapped the tip of his wand against each of the four little boots, leaving them gleaming.

Hermione could not help it: She laughed. The sound bubbled out of her before she could stop herself and the Death Eater whirled in her direction. His eyes were shadowed behind his mask, and although she knew that he could not see her, the blank expression on the mask made her feel as though his gaze was boring directly into her like a knife.

After a moment, he said, "You do not need to be afraid," and he sounded so disappointed by that information himself that she dared to believe him. "I only want to talk with you. I am curious about you, Little Red Riding Hood."

She hated that nickname. She yanked the cloak off of herself and folded it over one arm, glaring at him. "I am at least old enough to not be called _little_ anymore, Mister Wolf," she snapped. "I would thank you kindly to remember that."

"I'm sure you are," he replied and rose slowly to his feet. Crookshanks wrapped around his ankles. "But you are shorter than I am, and for as long as that is true, then to me, _Little_ you shall remain."

"It's also just a stupid thing to call me," she continued, rolling her eyes. "I'm not always wearing my cloak, like right now, for instance." She shook the material of the cloak folded over her arm at him in emphasis. "And what would you say to other people- _That over there is Little Red Riding Hood?_ If I'm not wearing a cloak, they'll think you're daft for calling me that and if I _am_ wearing it, people will you're daft for describing my cloak as _Little_."

"Well I don't know your name," he replied quickly (although he very well knew her name, since he had heard Weasley use it in the bookshop weeks ago and had not forgotten it), "And so until you share with me what else I might call you, I shall continue to call you what I like."

"We've been over this, _Mister Wolf_ ," she replied, emphasizing the name he'd instructed her to use on him at their first meeting, "If I'm to name you only by what you wear, then you can do the same for me."

"But you take issue with the nickname?" His tone was light like he was grinning behind the mask.

Hermione stamped her foot in impatience. "Only with the _Little_ part of it. Anyone can see that this is a full-sized cloak, not little at all!"

He chuckled. Was he joking with her? She felt her cheeks begin to grow warm.

"Forgive me, Red Riding Hood. I knew not how great and large you truly are when I spoke."

The corners of her mouth began to lift in response to the smile she can hear in his voice. She lowered herself delicately onto a fallen log. Crookshanks leaped lightly into her lap. "You are forgiven, Mister Wolf, as long as you don't let it happen again."

"Of course," he inclined his head toward her magnanimously and leaned against a tree trunk beside where she sat.

A comfortable silence stretched between them for a few minutes before he spoke again. "Tell me, Red Riding Hood, why are you out in the woods all alone again?"

"I'll not tell you that," she replied with a small smile.

"Then tell me this, instead: Who was it who disapparated and left you all alone?"

"I'm not alone," she replied, and the smile faded as she thought of Harry, still back at their campsite, fuming over Ron's sudden exit.

"Puss in Boots doesn't count," he replied archly, misinterpreting her words.

She felt no need to correct him and instead looked at the toes of her scuffed boots and the dry leaves crushed beneath them. "Have you ever killed anyone?" She asked as delicately as she could. The answer, whatever it was, would matter to her.

He was quiet for a long time, and she considered saying something else; apologizing for asking something so personal or at least try to change the subject. But he sighed and looked out into the woods away from her. "I thought you'd know the answer to that already, Red Riding Hood," he said cryptically. He sounded miffed.

She wondered if it stung his pride that he hadn't killed anyone, but the idea was like a weight lifted from her shoulders. She smiled at him, "I should think it's a good thing not to have killed anyone." Although she could understand that it would make him a pretty poor Death Eater.

He sighed again. "What are you doing out here, anyway? You're a few days' march from the Weasley hovel."

Hermione understood that he was trying to change the subject, maybe trying to salvage what he could of his pride and menacing demeanor, and that idea made her like him just a little bit more, so she decided to answer him honestly. "I am looking for a firebird. My friend has fallen ill and I need the tears of a phoenix to revive her."

"Are you brewing a potion?" He asked, his head cocked slightly to one side.

"If I can find phoenix tears then I will be."

He was quiet again for a moment, debating something in his own mind. "And if I could bring you to a phoenix, what would you give me in exchange?"

She was at a loss. She didn't have anything besides the clothes on her back and the wand she carried and Crookshanks. She'd left everything else behind.

"Let me take your cat," he suggested when she has been quiet for too long for his taste.

She blanched, looking wide-eyed at him, her mouth slightly open.

"Travelling is no life for a cat. A cat needs a warm hearth and good food. I can give him both of those. If you give me your cat, then I will take him with me today and tomorrow I shall return to carry you to the firebird." He didn't tell her that he was going to need something to present when his aunt checked the wards and learned that he'd left the Manor. He'd tell her that he'd gone out to fetch himself a cat, and he would show Crookshanks to her. Bellatrix was sure to approve of a cat as clever as this one, and in little boots no less. Besides, he wouldn't be able to take Hermione with him on that day, for if Bellatrix was watching the enchanted map she would know that he had disapparated in the forest and would approach him at once for the truth. It would not do to have Hermione with him when she asked.

"Why won't you take me with you now?" She replied, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Because I will take Master Cat to a palace where you ought not to be seen, and I will take you to a place Master Cat will not like."

Hermione weighed her options carefully, absent-mindedly stroking the only companion she has left from her old life. Mister Wolf is right in that she isn't the best one to care for Crookshanks right now. She recalls his rubbed-raw paws and makes up her mind. Crookshanks put a supportive paw over her hand and gave her a look full of understanding. If she didn't know better, she would think that he nodded. "How do I know you'll take good care of him?"

"I give you my word as a wizard and as a man." He placed a hand solemnly over his heart.

She gave him a small smile. "And your word as a wolf?"

He seemed taken off guard by her attempt at humor, but let out a half-hearted chuckle anyway. "On my word as a wolf," he replied.

She took a shuddering breath in and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. "Alright," she said. "Crookshanks," she addressed the cat, "Go with Mister Wolf and behave yourself. Don't get into too much trouble, but don't do everything he says, either."

Crookshanks pushed his head against her still-damp cheek and then padded obediently over to the man in the mask against the tree.

"You call him Crookshanks?"

"I didn't name him that," Hermione said and sniffed loudly. "He came with that name."

"It's a horrible name." The man replied as he bent down to collect Crookshanks in his arms.

"It's his, though," she said with a sad little smile.

"Cry not, Red Riding Hood," he said when at last he could take her weeping no more. "When all of this is said and done, I will return him to you, just as whole as he is now."

"Do you promise?" She stared at him with renewed hope in her eyes.

"I give you my word as a man and a wizard and a wolf." He replied, holding the cat against his chest. Crookshanks gave an assenting meow.

"Now then. Meet me here tomorrow at dusk. Tell no one, or else I will not be able to appear." The last thing he wanted was a swarm of Weasleys descending upon him now.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, her eyebrows drawn down in thought, but she nodded.

Without another word, he turned on the spot and vanished, leaving Hermione alone in the woods again.


	10. The Wolf Returned

Though they dawdled where Ron had left them in silence, and though they ate their small supper in silence, and though they curled into their own separate sleeps in silence, neither noticed the silence. All day long Hermione pondered how she might keep Harry from knowing that she would go without him tomorrow. Thankfully, Harry was so wrapped up in his own thoughts of Ron that he did not notice her troubles any more than she noticed his, for troubled he was. His best friend was gone and the girl he loved was trapped in an unbreakable sleep. So preoccupied was he that he did not even notice Crookshanks' absence. Eventually, he dropped into a restless sleep but Hermione remained awake and wondering. At last, just as the sun was beginning to open its orange eye on the horizon, the plan formed in her mind.

They agreed to wait one more day where they were in case Ron returned since it did not seem likely to Harry that any Death Eaters had been alerted to their presence (and although Hermione knew better, she did not see fit to correct him on this point. Instead, she agreed wholeheartedly with Harry's hopeful assertion). When at last Harry noticed that Hermione's cat was gone, she waved away his concern with a lofty, "I sent him off to catch mice since we are waiting one more day," and that was enough for Harry.

As the day drew to a close, Hermione volunteered to prepare their supper and Harry, who did not much care for cooking, happily agreed.

So she bustled around the little campsite, clanging pots together, rummaging in her little bag for ingredients, and pulling out so many little bottles and dried herbs that Harry could not even begin to keep track of them all. By the time she was done, she had prepared a lovely dinner of bread and stew and even a thick, dark wine.

"Where did you get that?" Harry asked, eyeing the wine excitedly.

"Molly bid me take it before we left," she replied truthfully and began to eat her portion of the meal.

Everything was very delicious and so Harry ate and drank greedily. Hermione, though, took care not to drink even a drop of the wine and, when Harry was not watching, threw it all away secretly.

No sooner had the meal finished than Harry's eyes began to grow heavy. He laid himself down on his bedroll and in a little while began to snore very loudly, fast asleep.

Although her plan had worked perfectly, Hermione did not feel like laughing. Guilt tightened like a noose around her throat. She did not care for subterfuge, even though spiking Harry's wine was the most reasonable course of action. Although she trusted her Wolf's intentions, she knew that Harry would not share her sentiments. _A wolf is a wolf_ , he might have said, _and you cannot trust a death eater_. Or perhaps he would have allowed her to go only to follow at a distance and report everything he saw back to the Weasleys. Perhaps he might even attack Mr. Wolf as soon as he saw him, at then they would never get the firebird.

"I'm doing you a favor," she said to Harry's sleeping face as she settled her bright red cloak about her shoulders. "You haven't had a good night's sleep in ages. If I had not given you that sleeping draught, you wouldn't have slept soundly enough."

If her calculations were correct and if the trip to retrieve the phoenix tears returned her before dawn, she could go and come back before Harry even woke. Then, once she'd attained the phoenix tears, she'd explain everything to him and they could go back to the Burrow, their task completed.

When she was all ready, she went and checked on Harry one last time, but he snored evenly and did not stir hand or foot. She had poured water from her wand onto the fire and covered their campsite in every protective ward she knew so he would be quite safe but, still, she felt uneasy; she felt a sickly sure that some mischance would befall her. As a last protective measure, she bent down before Harry's pack and pulled the silvery invisibility cloak from its depths. She dropped it over her friend's sleeping form and followed the path she had taken the day before to the grove of trees where the wolf had taken her cat.

* * *

No sooner had she reached that part of the wood than out from the darkness came Mister Wolf, dressed all in rich gray furs that reminded Hermione of cold winters in countries she'd only read about in books.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, his voice soft as velvet and as smooth as silk. He bowed low at the waist although the face of his lupine mask remained trained on her. And then—perhaps it was the mask that made him bold, or perhaps it was that he was already beyond fear for what he was about to do—he said: "It is dangerous for a lovely young thing in woods like this at night. Especially alone. There are beasts in places like this that would frighten you."

She returned his bow with one of her own and as she straightened she replied, "Perhaps it is the beasts who should be frightened of me.

"Have you come alone, Red Riding Hood?" he purred.

Hermione felt her heart quicken a beat at his voice and she licked her smiling lips. "Have you, Mister Wolf?"

Behind his mask, the wolf returned her smile. "A response for everything, of course. I see that your wit has not dulled in the last day," he replied.

"And neither have your powers of observation," she replied, and she took a step toward him. The night air was thick between them. "How is Crookshanks?"

"He dines on the finest young rabbits and partridges. He sleeps like a king. By the way, did you know that he snores? And he hogs the entire bed," complained Mister Wolf with a sniff.

This warmed Hermione's heart because she knew now that Crookshanks was in good hands and was treated well. It also endeared her further to the man behind the mask and compelled her to say, "Please, Mr. Wolf, before we go, might I ask your name?"

"You might ask," he replied slowly, "but my answer will be as it has been until now: To you, I must remain Mister Wolf. Now you have twice asked my name," he continued, internally marveling at how freely he spoke to the witch dressed in red. He blamed it on the mask. He blamed it on the panic pumping just under his skin. He blamed it on her delicate face, bathed in moonlight and shadow. "Pray do not ask again, for if you ask three times than I will surely tell you."

Well now she wanted to know more than ever what his name was, but she held her tongue out of respect for her strange ally. This meeting had a purpose and she had only the hours until dawn to complete her task and return without Harry noticing.

It seemed that Mister Wolf thought the same, for no sooner had she resolved not to ask his name than he said, "Come, we must make haste if we are to accomplish our task. There are worse things than me abroad tonight and I would not like to meet them in this wood. I will take you to the firebird."

Her hands were upon her hips in an instant. "I've met Bellatrix and Draco Malfoy," she said haughtily. "And I was not afraid."

Behind the mask, the wolf laughed darkly. "There are those who make even those two look like lambs by comparison. It is not of Bellatrix Lestrange or Draco Malfoy that I speak."

"Then who-"

He shook his head and held a black-gloved hand out to her. "It is better not to say the name. If you would accompany me, Red Riding Hood, it is time to go."

The hem of her cloak rustled against dried leaves as she crossed to him and slid her hand into his. She marveled at the way his large fingers closed gently over hers. Feeling like she had to fill the silence, "What nice gloves you have," she said.

"All the better to hold you with, my dear," he replied.

His reply drew up the memory of the not-Madame Greengrass and she shuddered. Suddenly she was unsure of this plan. Perhaps she had been a fool to trust a wolf.

Mistaking her shaking for cold, he drew her to his side and draped his heavy cloak about her shoulders. It smelled like pine sap, rich leather, and old books, which she liked quite a lot. She also marveled at how soft the pelt was, and as she ran her hands down the rich fur she said, "What nice furs you have."

"All the better to keep you warm, my dear," he said.

Her heart was in her throat now, choking the breath out of her. Her wand was a dead piece of wood gripped too tightly in her right hand, forgotten at her side. It was just as it had been all those months ago with the witch who was not Madame Greengrass in the woods.

However, before she could say another word or push herself away from him, his arm slid around her waist, which jarred her from her anxious thoughts. He leaned so close that she could feel the ghost of his breath against the shell of her ear and said, "Have you ever side-along apparated before, Hermione?"

Before she could answer, before she could even register the use of a name she had never given to him, the world narrowed into nothing and took her breath away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Twelve Dancing Princesses; Rumplestiltskin (very vaguely); Tsarevitch Ivan, the Firebird, and the Gray Wolf


	11. Wolf Trap

When they landed she stumbled away from him on shaking legs. Her heart pounded a worried tattoo and her breath puffed out in little clouds before her. Surely,  _surely_  there were better ways to travel than that! She turned back toward him, ready to give him a strongly-worded lecture on giving people some warning before subjecting them to things like that, but the sight that greeted her caught her breath in a little gasp.

"Oh! It's  _beautiful,_ " she said in a voice hushed by awe. And truly it was.

The sun had not quite finished setting here (demonstrating just how far away they had gone) and beyond where Mr. Wolf stood, wreathed in a halo of dying sunlight, there stood the most regal looking castle Hermione had ever seen. In front of the castle stood a wide array of tall and twisting trees, the autumn leaves caught in the fading sunlight like so many shining jewels.

"It is magnificent, isn't it?" Agreed her companion, turning his masked face to admire the estate around them. "It is but one of my mother's family's homes."

"This all belongs to you," she asked incredulously, turning glittering eyes upon him.

He chuckled softly. "No, Red Riding Hood," he said. "This home passed to the eldest of my mother's sisters upon the death of my gr—" Suddenly, he froze, his hand right hand flying to his left forearm and a hiss of pain escaping from behind his mask.

"What is it?" She asked in concern, taking a tentative step back towards him and her hands hovering uselessly in front of her. Perhaps it was magic. Probably it was a curse.

"It's the Dark Mark," he replied, regaining some control over himself, "The Dark Lord is calling us to him."

"The dark mark?  _Us_?" She echoed. But already her mind was connecting stars to form a constellation. The Dark Mark was the symbol that had hung above her head in the field beyond the Burrow all those months ago. The Dark Mark was the sign of Voldemort's followers; her enemies and the killers of her whole little village.

"His followers," Mister Wolf explained, although she no longer needed him to, "His Death Eaters."

"Ah," And with those words, the spell was broken. Hermione recalled that her companion was  _not_  as harmless as a wolf, but rather something much worse: a man. Her wolf knew Bellatrix Lestrange and Draco Malfoy, and he also knew someone who he thought much, much worse.  _There are those that make even those two look like lambs by comparison._

She would have asked  _why_  he was one of them despite the kindness he had shown to her, but he spoke before she could utter a single word. "I must go to him. If I do not, then he will send someone to collect me and all shall be lost. But heed my words," he said and pointed one gloved hand down a path laid with golden bricks that disappeared between the trees, "If you follow this road as far as it will go, you will come upon a garden. In this garden, you will find a firebird kept inside a golden cage. Collect some tears, but don't touch the cage or release the bird else you will be caught. Then, go to the little locker at the edge of the garden wall. There you will find a broomstick. Take the broomstick and fly away back to the Weasleys or wherever it is you want to go. Don't disapparate or you'll set off the wards. Don't do any magic at all. Is that clear?"

She opened her mouth to tell him that  _no,_  it  _wasn't_  clear; how was she supposed to collect tears without touching the cage? And what was with all of those prohibitions? If it was so dangerous, why didn't he just do it himself? It seemed ridiculous that he'd make her do it alone after coming all this way. Also, she wasn't any good with a broomstick and she didn't know  _how_  to disapparate anyway and why on earth would he take her somewhere that was apparently  _covered_  in traps and wards? Was he an idiot?!

But before she could say a word, he disappeared with a crack like a whip and was gone.

Muttering to herself about how  _some_   _people_ had not a lick of common sense, she picked up her feet, gathered her red cloak about herself, and set off down the path toward the garden.

* * *

Many, many miles away, in the heart of a deep, dark forest, in the center of a ring of hooded figures, stood Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was a great and terrible wizard unlike any that had ever been. They said he had removed his own soul. They said he had hidden his death in seven places that could never be found. They said that he could read the mind of a man with only a look. They said that snakes were his eyes in the darkness. They said that he ruled the dark things in the shadows. They said he was the darkest of them.

From behind ornate masks styled after great and terrible beasts, many sets of eyes were trained on their Lord, trapped by admiration and fear. All except for one. A single witch, with dark hair flying and wild eyes shining, who wore no mask and looked upon the Lord with love and adoration. She was Bellatrix Lestrange, and in these times of war, she was a queen. She had slain a host of men and wizards at her deathless lord's command. She had slain many more without it.

The Dark Lord's cold gaze went slowly around the circle, lingering on the gaps between the cloaked and masked figures where some of his followers were missing— dead or imprisoned— and lingered on the space that belonged to one who was simply, dangerously, absent.

"Tell me," he said, his cold voice slithering over the ears of his followers, "Where is young Draco? Why is it that he has not joined us this evening?"

The Death Eaters looked at one another, each waiting for one of the others to speak first.

"Lucius," hissed Lord Voldemort, "Come forward and explain to me your son's absence from our ranks."

"M-m-my lord," stammered a man, who wore a mask like a fanged sea serpent, grinning wicked silver in the soft glimmer of wand light. "I-t-it is certainly strange that Draco is the only one who has not obeyed your summons. I will seek him out and inquire into the matter. I'm sure that...that there is a good reason for his absence. We will prove—"

"Yes," cut in the Dark Lord, "It  _is_  strange that your son has not come, for he ought to have been the first one here since he does little these days. It seems that your son has lost his, shall we say, heart."

A ripple of nervous laughter passed over the circle.

Just then, a crack like a whip sounded a short distance away, lost in the darkness of the forest. "Ah, Lucius," the Dark Lord's cruel mouth turned up in a cold, strange smile. "It appears that our prodigal son has appeared at last."

The dark figure of Draco Malfoy, wolfish mask firmly in place over his aristocratic features, stepped into place beside between his father and his mother.

"Draco," said Lord Voldemort, "How nice of you to join us."

"Why did you not answer the Lord's summons immediately, Draco?" Bellatrix snarled from across the circle, her tone accusing and her eyes sharp. Her wand was pointed at his heart.

"Forgive me, Aunt Bellatrix, my Lord," he replied with a smooth bow, "For I have been ill since yesterday." His wolfish gray eyes met snakelike black ones and allowed the Dark Lord looked into his mind, searching for lies. But the young man's godfather, who had died only months before with all his own secrets intact, had trained him in occlumency and so the Dark Lord saw only what Draco wanted him to see.

"Very well," sighed the Dark Lord, "We shall begin."

* * *

Hermione tripped down the yellow bricks until she reached the trees cleared abruptly at the edge of the castle wall and opened into a clearing. It was a lovely little garden, quiet and overflowing with more plants than Hermione could name. Among those she could recognize, many had good medicinal values and a few were even so rare that she had only seen pictures of them in books. She paused beside a cluster of dittany that was hung so thickly with clusters of purple flowers than the plants bent almost to the ground. There were so many uses for dittany and so much of it here! Surely, a stalk or two would not be missed…

As she bent down to pick some, a note of music more beautiful than any she had ever before heard reached her ears and settled in the back of her brain like liquid gold. Her eyes stung with tears although she knew not why she wept. She raised her head and looked around. At last her gaze settled upon a golden cage that hung from the branch of an old and gnarled apple tree that was so weighed down by enormous apples that the branches sagged. Inside the cage, on a perch made of gold, there stood a great bird, orange and red and shining in the twilight as if it were on fire although Hermione could see no flames. It watched her with eyes that sparkled like rubies and, after a moment, it opened its beak and called to her again.

A tear slipped from the bird's eye and dropped between the bars of the cage. Where it landed on the ground, a plant unfurled and grew and opened into a magnificent golden poppy.

But Hermione was not paying attention to the flower. Her gaze was turned inwards and she considered what to do next. It was as plain as day that the bird did not want to remain in its beautiful golden cage— happy birds did not shed tears— yet Mister Wolf had warned that if she touched the golden cage then she would be caught. The prudent thing to do, she knew, would be to collect what she had come for and make plans to return to set the bird free at a different time. But this was Hermione Granger, and she had never left a thing to suffer when there was something that she could do about it. Besides, she had already come up with a plan that could work. Probably.

As night began to settle around her for the second time that day, she pulled out her wand.

"I've read all about you, of course," she said to the bird, who merely cocked its head to one side and watched her with intelligent, curious eyes. "I know you're smart. I also know that you can carry immense amounts of weight. So here's what I'm going to do: On the count of three, I'm going to open this cage with magic. Hopefully, that won't set off the alarm but if we do this right and leave quickly it won't matter either way. I'm going to open this cage and after that, do you think that you can fly me out of here? I know there's a broomstick around here somewhere, but I'm rubbish at flying and this way we can both get out of here. Does that sound alright?"

The phoenix let out another beautiful note, which Hermione assumed must be some sort of avian confirmation, but maybe it was just a mating call. She'd never paid much attention to birds other than Madame Greengrass's ill-tempered eagle owl and the Weasley's ancient one.

"Fantastic," she said with more confidence than she felt. "Great. Well, let's get this over with."

She readied her wand and on the count of three said, "Alohomora!"

The door of the golden cage swung slowly open as the wailing of a caterwauling charm roared into life all around her. As if in slow motion, the phoenix tipped forward out of the cage as  _Crack! Crack! Crack!_  the jarring snaps of apparition cut through the scream of the alarm.

"Thief!" Shrieked a voice that had haunted Hermione's nightmares since that fateful day in Madame Greengrass's cottage as the phoenix spread its glorious wings and began flapping toward her. She took a stumbling step backward and then another, and the began running toward the wall.

A curse whizzed by her ear and the bark of the tree beside her exploded in a shower of wood chips and the smell of smoke. Heart in her throat, Hermione reached up one hand to the bird who was flying low over her head, waiting for her to grab on.

Her fingers closed around the long, warm tail and her heart lifted with hope. She was doing it! She was going to get away from—

A spell hit her full in the back. The phoenix veered away, startled by the proximity of the curse, jerking its tail out of her grasp. Hermione fell to the ground, unable to move and watched as up, up, up the bird flew, farther and farther away until it was only one of many stars in the emerging darkness. Clutched in her frozen fist was still a single warm and shining feather, which cast a dim, orange glow around her. When the drawn, angry face loomed into her field of vision, it was the light of the feather that illuminated the features Hermione recognized with sinking dread.

"You," hissed Bellatrix Lestrange. "You're supposed to be dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird, and the Gray Wolf; The Wizard of Oz (bonus points if you can find where); The Happy Hunter and the Skillful Fisherman; Marya Morevna and Koschei the Deathless


	12. The Wolf's Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for implied torture. Please leave a comment if you'd like an abbreviated version of this chapter. If you're more comfortable contacting me privately, I can be reached on Tumblr (vitreous), twitter (@imallteeth).

 

No matter how much she struggled, no matter how hard she fought, there was no escaping the grip of Bellatrix's magic. Her wand was taken from her frozen hand and she was floated all the way into the great, black castle. She stared, unable to even blink her eyes, at the stone ceiling above her. They did not stop until they had reached a great and cavernous hall with vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings along the walls. It was here, in the center of the room, that Bellatrix unfroze her.

She was up like a shot but she made it no more than a few paces towards the older witch before her legs were frozen and she toppled onto the cold stone floor.

"Who helped you?" Hissed Bellatrix, her eyes alight with fury, "Who brought you to this place?"

"No one," Hermione snapped back at once. "I was working alone."

"Liar!" Snarled the wicked witch, "You can imagine my surprise when the wards pulled me back here,  _away_ fro a meeting with my Lord. There are spells upon this castle that a  _mudblood_ like you could not hope to know. There are charms that keep this land unplottable. There are jinxes that keep all out but those who know where it is."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Well clearly they're not that great since I was able to get here."

"You will pay for your insolence, you muggle bitch. And then I will have my answers."

Hermione thought of Mr. Wolf. Her mind lingered on the smooth timbre of his voice and passed over the strange and subtle kindnesses he showed to her. Although she was not well educated, she had read enough to know that there were indeed ways of pulling the truth out of those who did not wish to share it. And she cursed how little she knew of this magical world, for it was clear to her that she would not be able to keep Bellatrix out of her mind no matter how much she struggled. "Whatever you do, don't kill me," she said. Bellatrix was a sadistic witch and perhaps, with some encouragement, she would just kill her. Although Hermione did not want to die, it was even more important to keep those she knew and cared for— the Weasleys and Mr. Wolf— safe fro Bellatrix's prying magic. "Anything but that."

A slow, wicked smile curled up Bellatrix's face and with sinking certainty, Hermione knew that Bellatrix was far too clever to fall for a trick like that. "You  _will_  certainly be killed, you wicked child. But all in good time. The punishment must fit the crime and so first I will find the answers you mean to hide from me. Be sure that you will beg for death before it comes. Indeed it will be more painful than anything you can imagine. Now then, let us see what is in your head."

Bellatrix raised her wand and descended upon Hermione's mind.

* * *

As the clock rang out midnight, Bellatrix materialized just outside the wrought iron gates and passed through them as though they were mist. Cloaked in fury, eyes flashing, she stalked up the front walk and threw open the door with a resounding  _bang_. She paid no mind as the house elf approached to take her traveling cloak. She knocked aside the little creature and advanced further into the house like a whirlwind of ire. She did not stop until she reached the library.

Draco and Narcissa both looked up from the books they were reading, long since changed from their official robes into lounging ones. Crookshanks, who had been curled and purring on Draco's lap, leaped down and scampered out of sight with a hiss. Narcissa looked over at her sister in a cold, disdainful way that all present knew meant she was concerned and surprised by her sister's sudden appearance. Draco, on the other hand, was even better than his mother at concealing his emotions and managed to merely look bored. Neither witch noticed the way his eyes had flickered to the grandfather clock in the corner every few minutes since the family had returned to the manor from the meeting in the woods, nor did they know that he had not managed to read a single line of the novella he'd selected at random when his mother had invited him to read with her for a few hours before bed. He wanted nothing more than to go look for Hermione— a feeling he reasoned existed only because she was constitutionally incapable of going five minutes without getting herself in trouble and for absolutely no other reason whatsoever— but could not do so without raising his parents' awareness and, resultingly, their suspicion.

"Bella," Narcissa began, rising to her feet, "What on earth—"

Bellatrix tossed a cloth sack at Draco's feet. "Recognize  _this_?" She hissed like a snake.

It was a medium-sized burlap sack, just a bit larger than a human head. Bellatrix Lestrange was known for mercilessness and had killed more witches and wizards than perhaps any but the Dark Lord himself. She was not known to take prisoners. She was not known to look favorably on those who touched what she thought was hers, and she guarded her garden ruthlessly. If she had caught Hermione there...

Draco did not scramble to grab the parcel. He did not run for the door. He did not scream or shout or in any way betray the painful hammer of his heart against his ribs. He arranged the elegant lines of his face into genteel curiosity and raised an eyebrow questioningly at his glowering aunt.

"Open it, brat!" Bellatrix spat.

"You will not speak to my son that way again, sister," Narcissa commanded, and the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. It was good manners to leave your wand in the entryway when in polite company, and so Draco and his mother had both left theirs behind before entering the room. If they had not, Draco knew Narcissa's would already be in her hands and leveled at the other witch.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Draco closed a feather between the pages of his book and with steady hands, he bent down to the parcel. Carefully, ever so carefully, he undid the drawstring ends and reached inside. He was not sure whether to be relieved or distraught at what he found.

"Well?" Snarled Bellatrix.

Draco's face remained as smooth as stone and no emotion played upon its surface. "It's a cloak," he said archly. He held it up in front of his face. Although he did not show it, in his head he marveled at how small it seemed. Hermione loomed so largely in his mind and memory that he had thought the cloak would be bigger, but this scrap of cloth hardly seemed like it could fit anyone at all. "A woman's cloak," he added and met his aunt's gaze. " _Should_  I recognize it, Aunt Bellatrix?"

She actually snarled at that— curled her lip back and let out a low, feral sound. "It belonged to that little muggle  _bitch_. The one you were  _supposed to_  have  _killed months ago_!"

Narcissa's ice-chip eyes fixed upon her son then, full of unasked questions, but she dared not speak. Tension stretched like a bowstring between them.

Draco allowed a slow sneer to curl up his face as he dropped the cloak unceremoniously to the ground. " _Supposed to_ , Aunt Bellatrix? Did we not dine together on her liver and lungs? The Dark trusts me as his huntsman. Do you doubt his choice?"

"Indeed, Draco, I did not. I thought we had dined upon her together," replied the witch, taking one step and then another forward into the room. Her knuckles were white around her wand at her side. Rage radiated off of her in waves. Her voice rose with every word. "And so you can imagine my surprise, Draco, when I found her in  _MY GARDEN EARLIER TONIGHT._ "

Although this was his worst fear confirmed, again Draco did not let his emotions show upon his face. "It can't have been the same girl, Aunt Bellatrix," he said with a calm he did not feel. "The one you sent me to fetch is long dead and gone and buried in pieces and eaten for supper."

A feral grin twisted over Bellatrix's thin lips. Her eyes met his and, in an instant, he could feel her pressing into his thoughts, clawing for entrance into his memories. But Draco's godfather had trained him as an occlumens, and so she found no purchase in his head. The world swam back into focus and he leveled a glare at his aunt, who was panting but looking smug. "Unfortunately, your  _Little Red Riding Hood_ did not receive your education in occlumency and her mind, though very interesting, was easy enough to penetrate,  _Mr. Wolf_. Did you think you would not be recognized if you did not show your face? Did you think I would not recognize your mask?" Her wand came up and leveled at his chest.

"Bellatrix," warned Narcissa, her voice like steel.

"No, Cissy," Bellatrix barked, her eyes flashing with poorly controlled fury and madness, "You've been too gentle with the boy. That's why this has happened."

"What has—"

"You will allow me to deal with him  _my way_ and I will  _not_  tell the Dark Lord about the viper you've nourished in our den." Her wand did not waver. "I will be more merciful than he would be, Cissy," pressed on Bellatrix. "Surely you would rather his punishment fall to me than to our master. I think that the boy can be saved. When he has gotten over his little infatuation with the mudblood, I will return him whole and well and good as new."

Draco scoffed, "What infatuation? There is no—"

"Still your lying tongue, nephew!" Shrieked Bellatrix, "Or I will  _make you_  be silent!"

"Bellatrix," Narcissa's voice was as soft as her sister's was loud, but she commanded respect all the same.

"I have seen inside the girl's mind, Narcissa," persisted Bellatrix, "Draco shall never be ours so long as he holds her in his heart."

"I do not—"

"I WILL CURE HIM," Bellatrix continued over his words, "AND NONE SHALL EVER BE THE WISER OF WHAT WE THREE HERE HAVE DISCUSSED." In a softer, more beseeching tone she added, "Not even the Dark Lord."

Narcissa looked quickly at her son and her sister, unsure how to proceed.

Draco's hands itched. He wondered if he would have time to summon his wand and curse her into oblivion before she had the chance to do the same to him. Surely his reflexes were faster than hers were, and he could overpower her in hand-to-hand combat, but she was an excellent duelist and her wand was still pointed at his heart. His soul called for vengeance and his mind flashed with fury, but Draco knew the subtle magic of control and so cold reason won out over anger in the end. He would keep his wrath leashed until it was time to set it free.

"Draco," said Bellatrix as if reading his thoughts, "Have you considered what your actions will mean for your  _family_  should the Dark Lord learn of your treachery? If you strike me down here and now the Dark Lord will still learn of your treachery in time. Surely you would end in agony, but what would he do to your mother and father should he learn what you have tried to do— what you have done already?"

Draco stilled completely at this. Surely,  _surely_  she would not damn her own sister to the worst of the Dark Lord like that? One look at the icy gleam in Bellatrix's eye revealed beyond a shadow of a doubt that yes, she would, and so much worse if she wanted to. Draco did not fear his aunt, but he was not fool enough to doubt the power of Lord Voldemort.

"Come away with me, Draco," she wheedled, her tone suddenly saccharine. Foam gathered at the corner of her mouth and her lips twitched. She was beyond reason. "And we shall speak no more of what could be. Your little muggle is still alive. If you are a good boy, I might even let you see her once again."

"Draco," said Narcissa beseechingly. "You don't have to go with her. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding that we can sort out if we sit down and discuss it like reasonable adults."

But what could he say? What could he do? The game was up. The wicked witch had them in her clutches and he could see no means of escape. He nodded his head and, wordlessly, followed his aunt from the room.

From a hidden corner, Crookshanks watched him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairytales used: The Viper and the Farmer; vague undertones of Puss in Boots and The Death of Koschei the Deathless


	13. The Name of the Wolf in the Shadows

 

When Hermione awoke, she felt as though her mind had been torn asunder and scattered across the world on the backs of the four winds. She knew not whether it was night or day, or even how much time had passed, but the gnawing ache in her stomach told her that she must have slept for quite some time because she was very, very hungry. With a groan, she pried her eyes open.

It was very dark, but she could tell she was laying on a cold, stone floor. The only light in the suffocating black little room was the guttering of orange firelight that shone around the edges of what could only be a cold, stone door fitted perfectly into the otherwise featureless cold, stone walls.

How had she gotten here?

With another little groan, she pulled herself up into a seated position and did her best to recall all that had transpired before her imprisonment. Her memories came rushing back to her as if they had been waiting at the edges of her mind for but her call. She remembered with vivid horror the invasion of a consciousness that was not her own in her mind. She recalled the bleak, embarrassed helplessness she felt as Bellatrix Lestrange rifled through her memories indiscriminately, violating whatever she willed and leaving Hermione with no place to hide.

Her hand closed over the scabbed-over word carved into her arm; red as blood, red as damnation. The pain had faded but the shame still burned fresh.

Mudblood.

It wasn't a word to which she had any particular attachment; no one with whom she spent any time used it. But she understood the slur when it was thrown at her by the wicked witch. She meant to pay the word no mind and she tried not to mind the scabs. One day, the scars would say she survived.

And she  _had_  survived! Despite the pain, despite the indignity of Bellatrix's invasion into her thoughts, she had not been killed! A miracle, perhaps! But, no. Bellatrix was not the sort to allow miracles to happen. Because she had survived until now, it meant that something much worse would come to her soon.

_What a mind you have_ , Bellatrix had cackled inside Hermione's head,  _Like a steel box. You remember_ everything _! What fun I shall have in here!_

With that recollection, Hermione tipped forward and would have heaved the remnants of her last meal onto the cold, stone floor if only there had been anything left in her stomach. Alas, she recalled now, she had rid herself of the little meal in the wood with Harry once Bellatrix had left her mind.

_On the bright side_ , she thought with determined optimism,  _I was probably so gross that she didn't_ dare _to torture me further._  Hermione grimaced,  _or maybe that's when I passed out._

"You're awake, then?" Came a gravelly voice from the darkness and Hermione whirled toward the sound, staring furiously into the dark as her heart hammered in her chest. There was something familiar about the voice, although she knew not what. It sounded like a dog that had learned to speak.

"Stay back!" she croaked. Her voice was hoarse. Her head still pounded. She squinted into the inky shadow but could make the shape of no living thing.

"Ah," the voice replied, low and growling, more like a beast than a man, "I don't suppose you  _would_  recognize my voice like this. I suppose that's part of the reason she chose it. I should have figured as much." From the darkness, Hermione heard the shuffle of clothing moving against cloth and a soft tapping of something sharp against the stone.

Although she saw nothing but shadow and although the voice should have sent a shiver up her spine, she was not afraid. He had sounded almost glum. "I know you?" she asked, and reached around into her scattered mind, looking for a piece that might fit, "I'm sorry, but it's hard to think clearly right now. Do you know where we are? What day it is?"

There was a low sound that could only have been a growl and again something shifted in the darkness. Hermione thought she could just make out the hulking outline of someone very large, but perhaps it was just her imagination.

"We are held captive in the highest room in the tallest tower of the Castle Black. It is the home of Bellatrix Lestrange. We are her prisoners. I believe that I was brought here three days ago, which would make today," he paused for a moment before saying, "Thursday. You were here when I arrived."

"Three days?!" She echoed incredulously. No wonder she was so hungry! Now that she knew how long it had been since she had last eaten, the pain in her stomach intensified.

"Indeed," rumbled her companion. "And in that time, you have not stirred. When first I came here I examined you for injury and found but one and that one was shallow and already scabbed over. But curses seldom leave a mark that can be seen by the unaided eye. Pray, tell me what dark magic has she wrought upon you?"

She tried to summon the proper words. "I... she...she was in my head." Yet surely, he would be unable to understand from that explanation alone, so, "Sh-she looked through my…" Hermione continued. She reached a face up to her cheek and found that she was crying quietly.

"Thoughts and memories," rumbled the man in the dark, "It's alright, it's alright. You don't need to explain any more than that. I understand."

"I-I tried to keep her out," Hermione choked, "I fought as best as I could."

"No matter how hard you fought, it would not have been enough. Few and far between are the witches and wizards who can stand against an attack by a legilimens like Bellatrix. You do not need to explain any more than that. I know what she has done and I know how hard it can be to talk about it. Here, I've got some water that I've managed to siphon off these stones. If you promise to shut your eyes, I'll bring it across to you."

Hermione sniffed and tried unsuccessfully to stem the flow of tears. She  _was_  quite thirsty, but "Why must I shut my eyes?" she could not keep from asking.

He sighed again. It sounded like a growl. "I'm not exactly the best-looking fellow these days and I'd appreciate a little privacy despite our proximity."

Hermione's kind heart and curiosity warred within her for a few moments before she nodded her head and shut her eyes. "Alright," she said, "They're closed."

"Do not look," ordered her companion.

"I won't," she promised.

She heard the rustling of cloth again and then a series of sharp taps of something against stone as he made his way toward her.  _Could those be...claws?_  She wondered to herself.

"Hold out your hands," instructed the voice from a little way in front of her.

Obediently she held her out hands. She heard him shuffle forward again.

Something warm and wooden was pressed between her hands. She could feel water slosh back and forth in the cup but before she could bring it to her lips, a soft piece of fabric brushed gently over her left cheek and then her right.

"Do not cry, Hermione," rumbled the voice so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

It was the use of her name that startled her so. With a little gasp, her eyes flew open and, by the faint light that leaked around the door, she found herself staring at the face of the ugliest creature she had ever seen. A pair of glowing yellow eyes were set into sunken sockets in a face covered with blue-gray fur. Below its eyes protruded a misshapen snout and its snaggle teeth jutted out at strange angles. It looked like a cross between a man and a wolf, with none of the grace of either and all of the wretchedness of both.

With a yelp, she dropped the little wooden cup scuttled as far away from the beast as she could and did not stop until her back pressed against the stone wall. "Who—" she began, "What—"

The creature raised enormous hands tipped in long, sharp claws, and pinched the bridge of its snout, massaging lightly. His lip curled up, revealing even more long, yellowed teeth. "Please," it drawled in its growling voice, "Spare me the dramatics, will you? If I'd wanted to hurt you, I had three days to do it  _before_  you woke up and started screaming."

It was so condescending, so patronizing, that Hermione hardly noticed as the blind terror retreated and righteous indignation took its place. "Well  _forgive me_  for not expecting a...a... whatever you are. You could have given me some warning, you know. What  _are_  you, anyway?" And then, as the clever part of her brain finally caught up to the rest of her, "How do you know my name? How do I know you? What is your name?" she demanded.

The beast froze and for a long moment, the only sound was Hermione's slowing breaths.

At long last, he said, "You have asked me my name three times now, and surely I must now answer."

And with those words, she knew him at once. "Mister Wolf!" The name sprang unbidden from between her lips and she crawled nearer to him again. Yes— now that she thought about it, she could see the resemblance his gruesome face bore to the mask he had always worn.  _How strange_ , she thought _, that what had seemed charming when fixed to a mask is so terrible when truly plain upon a face_.

He opened one yellow eye— she marveled at how different it was from the gray eye that had looked out from her behind the mask— and looked at her hopelessly. "Is there any chance that you'll be satisfied with that name alone?"

"How did— what did?" Hermione began as questions vied for importance in her throat, each trying to be the first one said. And then she froze as one question loomed larger than all the others. "I've never told you my name," she said, her voice flat. "But this isn't the first time you've used it, either, is it? I don't know how I didn't realize it before." She was sure now that it was her Mr. Wolf, but that did little to enlighten her. "Who are you  _really_ , Mr. Wolf?"

His inhuman eyes slanted away from her and the edges of his muzzle twisted in a way that might have been a frown had the muscles beneath the skin been capable of moving in such a way. "You won't like the answer," he warned. He picked up the little wooden cup she had dropped in her haste to escape him and he rose to his feet. Dark robes hid most of his looming, hulking frame, but a long and bushy tail poked out from underneath the robe. Atop his head, two pointed, canine ears brushed the ceiling and flicked in agitation. She wasn't sure if he was hunched forward because of the low ceiling or because of a crooked spine. "And you've spilled all the water, you know. It took me the better part of two days to collect all of that."

"Please," she entreated. Now that she knew who he was, and knew that he was a friend, relief flooded through her. But curiosity would no longer be satisfied with half-truths. "Tell me your name."

His ears flattened against his head. Still turning the little cup between his paw-like hands and without looking up at her, he said, "My name is Draco Malfoy. I am the only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy and heir to all that they possess. Until very recently, I was a death eater and I served the Dark Lord loyally."

Silence greeted this proclamation as Hermione processed what he had just told her. Surely, he could not be the same Draco Malfoy who she had met in Flourish and Blotts; The same Draco Malfoy who had assisted Bellatrix Lestrange in the destruction of her home and family; The same Draco Malfoy who had caused the death of Harry's mentor and ruined so many lives. Surely,  _surely_  it could not be so!

And yet he had said himself that he was the only heir, and so she knew that there could be no other.

Her hands curled into fists. She stood on trembling legs and walked forward, quickly closing the distance between them.

His ears flicked toward her and his eyes swung up toward her, giving him just enough time to see the fist that she had aimed with remarkable accuracy at his nose before she punched him in the face.

He yelped like a hurt dog and stumbled backward. "You hit me!" he barked, massaging his snout with the paw that did not hold the cup. And then, collecting himself, he added with a low growl, "Few have struck me in such a way and lived to tell the tale."

She stood tall and brave before him, all fear and hunger were forgotten in the face of her friend-turned-foe. Her fists remained raised and chest continued to heave with righteous anger. Her hair swelled like a cloud of wrath around her head. "And yet you have not managed to kill me to date, although I have been sure several times you would. Why couldn't you kill me that first day in the woods, anyway? Why did you keep showing up in my life? Was it all a joke to you— run the silly muggle girl— the  _mudblood_ — around in circles? It was from the book you recommended in Flourish and Blotts that I learned about the Phoenix. It was at your behest that I broke into Bellatrix's garden. Have you done all of this on purpose? Was this your goal all along?"

He snarled, then. Low and feral like the wolf he'd pretended to be for so long. "I don't need to answer your questions," he bit out, for he did not know the answer to that himself. He had never been a stranger to death. He had never wavered before, no matter how gruesome the task. It had been something stronger than curiosity that had returned him to her time and again. He was not yet brave enough to answer that question for himself. "If this had been my plan," he continued, gesturing wildly around himself, "Don't you think that I'd be somewhere  _better_  than this? That I'd be  _looking_ better than this?" He gestured at his own, ruined face.

"I can hardly tell the difference," Hermione scoffed, sticking her nose in the air and lying through her teeth. She would cut out her own tongue before she would admit to Draco Malfoy that Mr. Wolf had captured her interest and she would put out her own eyes before she would tell anyone how handsome Draco Malfoy's face had been that day in the bookshop.

"As if it matters what one muggle bitch thinks," he spat. "As if I'd be in here if I had any choice in the matter."

"And why  _are_  you in here now?" she said, seizing on the thoughtless comment to keep him from seeing how deep his comment had cut her. "Is  _Auntie Bellatrix_ trying you out as a guard since you've turned out such a poor killer?" She said it as though it were indeed a shameful thing to have failed to kill her. Hurt and anger made a terrible liar of her and the words flew from her mouth like locusts.

He froze like an animal caught in a trap and then dropped his gaze. He mumbled something at the cold, stone floor.

"What was that?" She asked with false cheeriness. "Speak up."

"Teaching me a lesson," he repeated, his ears pressed flat on either side of his head.

"A lesson?" she echoed, her eyes sparkling dangerously. "What  _sort_  of a lesson, Malfoy?"

"She's taken my wand, turned me into  _this_ , and informed me that she won't let me out until I've learned my lesson." Explained Draco more thoroughly.

Hermione scoffed. "Oh really? And how will she know you've done  _that_? What's she waiting for? And you have yet to explain what  _exactly_  this lesson is that you're learning."

He ran a clawed hand over the top of his head, and Hermione knew that, if he had hair instead of fur, he would have run his hands through it in a frustrated gesture. "When I've killed you. She mentioned that if I can't kill you like a wizard, I can at least kill you like a beast."

Dread settled like a weight in her stomach. "You've never managed to kill me before," she argued, "what makes her think you'll kill me  _this_ time?"

Yellowed teeth glimmered in the like when he grimaced. She tried not to think about how large those teeth were. Or how sharp.

"She figures it's just a matter of time until I get hungry enough."

* * *

In a different house, a cat listened to a quiet conversation between hushed voices. Its tail twitched as it considered its options. Its orange eyes glowed in understanding. It sat, unnoticed in the shadows, and began to form a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Maid Maleen; Godfather Death; Beauty and the Beast


	14. Necessary Wolves

Hermione huddled close against the hard ground, head buried between her folded arms, thinking dark thoughts. It was bad enough that she was trapped in here, that she was Bellatrix's prisoner without considering who—or what— she was trapped with. Why, oh, why was she stuck in here with _Draco Malfoy_ of all people? A man who was a beast before this appearance had been changed but who seemed twice as horrible now that the exterior matched the interior. It was hard enough to believe that the identity of her genteel Mr. Wolf was truly he; now she had to come to terms with the fact that Draco Malfoy was her co-prisoner and a ghastly one at that.

She hadn't taken the news well but at long last the argument between her and her cellmate had finally petered into silence, each having retreated to opposite walls. Or, more accurately, Hermione had flattened herself against this wall and demanded that he do the same on his side. She meant to truly argue with him but found that she did not have the strength to say much past "You stay over there and I'll stay over here, you foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach."

To which he had replied, " _You're_  the one who punched  _me_  in the nose! So I didn't tell you who I was! What's the big deal? I never said I  _wasn't_  Draco Malfoy. Never even hinted at it!"

"You are a manipulative liar!" She'd thrown back. "And I never want to see you again."

"Well it's too bad for you," he'd growled around jagged teeth, "But I think we're stuck here." Despite his protestations, he had already retreated to the shadows against the far wall.

"Until you  _eat_  me, you selfish bastard," she'd snarled.

"Until we both die of starvation," he'd replied, equally as furious.

Now, all she wanted was to sleep for one hundred years. Maybe even more than that. She thought of Ginny, suspended in an endless sleep. That didn't sound so bad to her right now.

She had been sorely disappointed in the revealed identity of her Mr. Wolf and the sting of the betrayal had yet to fade. She thought that she had been careful. She'd wasted no wishes on him and had been prepared to accept it if he had been a toad of a man behind the mask, but never once had she thought that it could have been Draco Malfoy. Some things were too strange even for fantasy. Now, she missed the illusion of the man she'd seen through the mask; his strange kindnesses, his sharp humor. In her mind, she mourned her Mr. Wolf as dead and gone. Never again would she find comfort in his presence, for in what way could Draco Malfoy redeem himself to her? Although she was as clever as the day was long and knew the answer to a hundred questions, she could think of no answer for this one.

The sound of claws against stone drew her out of her dark thoughts. She lifted her head and nearly banged it against the little wooden cup that was held out to her.

"What is it?" she asked, eyeing it warily.

In the dim light, she could just make out the roll of inhuman eyes and the curling up of one black lip. He made a sound that might have been a scoff in a more humanoid throat. "Clearly dehydration has started to sully your intellect," he rumbled, each syllable positively dripping with annoyance. But then the rough face softened slightly and he let out a little sigh when her distrusting expression didn't change. "What do you think it is? It's water. Come on, you haven't had anything to drink in three days. That's about the limit of these things, I think, although you're a witch so perhaps another day or so mightn't kill you if you'd rather not drink. I won't force it upon you."

Reluctantly, she took the little wooden cup. Although it contained but a little water, it was still heavy, and this was how she knew how weak she had grown. She raised it to her lips and emptied the cup in a single gulp. As she licked her dry, chapped lips for the last of the moisture and handed the cup up to him, she began to feel a little better. "Thank you," she said and only now realized how hoarse her voice had grown. Perhaps it was from shouting across the little room. Perhaps it was from days without water. "I think it helped."

He made a clucking sound and ran a clawed hand over his head again. "If you're thanking me, I know you're unwell," was all he said and with that, he stalked back across the room to his own side, heavy tail dragging on the ground behind him.

Hermione dozed for a time but was awakened eventually by the gentle prodding of something wooden against the side of her head. She opened her eyes and found him squatting beside her, holding out the little wooden cup. "Drink," he said.

"Say please," she rasped with a smile and took the proffered cup. Again she drank it in a single gulp and again she felt a little bit better.

He made no reply but plucked the empty cup from her hands and retreated once again to his side. She fell into a light slumber again.

Twice more he roused her with little cups of water and twice more she felt a little better each time before her mind was sharp enough to catch the drip drip drip of water in the distant corner. She let the sound lull her back to sleep.

On the fifth time she was roused from slumber by the press of the wooden cup against her hands, she opened her eyes and asked, "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm trying to give you water poisoning, but since you've had nothing to drink for half a week I'm starting at a slight disadvantage," he said sarcastically and then, "I thought you'd have realized that it's so you don't die of dehydration." His yellow eyes rolled again and a faint lifting around the top of his head might have been the raise of eyebrows. His ears twitched.

"But surely you are thirsty, too," she replied.

His ears swiveled around again in thought. "I think," he said slowly, staring down at his own massive paws, "That Bellatrix did not account for how hearty this form would make me. I've had nothing to eat or drink for four days and I barely feel it."

She nodded and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes to better organize her thoughts.

After the eighth cup of water, she began to notice the chill seeping in through the wall and pulled her arms tighter around her shoulders.

"You are cold," he said when he brought her the ninth cup of water. "You are shivering."

But she had given no comment to indicate her cold, so, curious, "How well can you see now?" she asked as she took the little cup, willing her teeth to stop chattering.

"Well enough," he replied and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"Thank you for the water," she said as she handed the cup back to him.

He took it silently, the twitching of his ears betraying indecision as he stood in front of her for a few minutes. Finally, he said, "Come sit against the other wall with me."

He must have seen the look on her face because he hastily added, "Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't try anything." He did not say  _I wouldn't try anything while I look like this_ , but that was what he meant; He did not say  _I wouldn't try anything on a muggle_ , but that was what she thought he meant. He forged ahead as though he had no self-pitying thoughts and in so doing cut through hers, too, "The cold doesn't bother me at all. If you sleep beside me, you will be warmer."

"How thick is your fur now?" She asked, putting her head on one side and squinting at him in the dark, but no matter how much she willed her eyes to work better in the dim light, she could not see for certain anything but the shape of him and the strange, inhuman glow of his eyes.

"Thick enough," he replied and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

She stood, and when her knees buckled he steadied her with an arm around her waist. "This doesn't mean I trust you," she blurted out, even as she leaned against him.

He stilled as if frozen. His paw was so large that it covered her torso from the base of her ribs to the swell of her hip, his claws were so sharp she could feel their points even through the thick fabric of her dress. She told herself that she did not wonder what that hand would have felt like if it were human.

"Of course not," he scoffed, and adjusted his grip so he was barely touching her, "And it doesn't mean that I want to be any closer to you than I absolutely have to be. This is only a matter of necessity. It means nothing."

And with their words like a wall of thorns between them, they made their way across the room. Wordlessly, he settled her against his back and draped his long, thick tail over her. Its fur was coarse and heavy, but it was also warm and thick and it spread over her like a winter blanket. It didn't take long for her shivering to subside and they sat quietly, the strange proximity setting them both on edge.

After three more cups of water, Hermione felt like her old self, although she held her tongue lest she break the fragile truce that had been established wordlessly between them. As she handed the little cup back to him, though, he stilled and his head turned toward the yellow light of the door, ears swiveled toward it, intent upon something.

Hermione could hear nothing though she held her breath the better to listen and asked in a whisper, "How good are your ears now?"

One ear twitched toward her for a moment although his head did not move. "Good enough," he answered, shrugging one shoulder.

And then, because she was getting sick of cryptic answers, she asked, "Ok, that's great, but  _what_  are you hearing, exactly?"

He listened for a moment longer before finally looking down at her. In this light she could not see more than a black outline against gray shadows, so she could not see the look of disbelief on his face but when he spoke, she could hear it in his voice. "Tiny boots." He said as if he could not believe the words coming out of his mouth.

"Tiny boots?" She echoed because she could not believe it, either.

"Four of them."

Her hand flew to her mouth and, "Crookshanks!" she gasped just as from beyond the door came a slightly muffled meow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Beauty and the Beast, Koschei the Deathless, Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots


	15. The Wolf Takes His Supper

"Oh, Crookshanks!" Hermione said again, and sprang from Draco's side. She crossed the room quickly and knelt beside the door, hands pressed flat against the wood. "Crookshanks, can you hear me?"

There was a dancing of shadow in the light beneath the door as Crookshanks settled right in front of her. She could see the very soles of the little boots she had transfigured for him what felt like lifetimes in the past but couldn't have been more than a week ago. He  _meow_ ed again, and again it sounded muffled.

She was so relieved that she let out a ragged laugh even as tears began to fall from her eyes.

"How did he get here?" Rumbled the gravelly voice of Draco from right beside her.

She hadn't noticed he'd followed her, and she paid him no mind now. "Crooks," she croaked, "I need you to go find a way to open the door. Keys or something."

"Keys won't open a magically locked door," Draco said unhelpfully behind her. "Even a clever cat can't magic a door open with keys."

"Be quiet, you!" She snapped at her cellmate and then, pressing the length of her body flat against the door, "Anything you think might work. Can you do that for me, Crooks?"

Crookshanks trilled a little  _Brrriip!_  and the shadows moved under the doorway and were blocked almost completely as something was pushed under.

"I don't believe it," Draco said in a hushed voice.

"What?" she said distractedly as she felt blindly against the floor.

As her fingers closed around smooth wood, "It's a wand," Draco said. "I cannot believe it. Your clever cat has brought us a wand. But where on earth did he get it?"

Gripping the thicker end in a shaking hand. "Lumos!" Hermione whispered, just to be sure it would work and, surely, a bright little glow began at its tip and grew brighter as joy and hope soared in her chest.

* * *

In a few short moments Hermione and Draco were blinking in the afternoon sunlight that streamed onto the tower landing from the windows around their cell, Crookshanks purring and rubbing around their ankles. She tried not to stare at Draco, conscious that it would be rude to do so, but in the light, he looked even more terrifying than he had in the dark. She could not help the way her eyes were drawn to the appalling bowed legs and splayed claws; the curved spine and ruff of fur around his neck, the ill-fitting teeth shoved into a mouth too long for a wizard and too sharp for an animal. He looked like the illustrations of the halfway point between man and werewolf that she'd seen in a book at the Burrow; tall and hunched; misshapen and covered in thick, gray-blonde fur that would have been unnatural on either a man or a beast. He still wore the thick black robe he had surely been wearing before his capture, but it was not made for a beast of his shape and hung awkwardly on the hunched, lanky form, exposing thick, black claws and a bushy gray tail where they would have once swept dramatically against the floor. He caught her eye and she looked away hastily, a blush of shame spreading across her cheeks.

"That is my wand," he said calmly, as though he had not just caught her staring, "I know it as surely as I would know my own hand."

Wordlessly, she held it out to him, but he only shook his head.

"It is better that you should keep it. I cannot use it like this. I am no wizard in this shape. Besides, I fear your wand has been snatched and broken by Bellatrix."

"Right," she replied, squaring her shoulders and looking up at him. She twirled the wand between her fingers. "How do I turn you back?"

He chuckled darkly. It sounded like a growl. "I fear I do not know. Bellatrix knows many dark spells that she shares with no one. Perhaps there is no cure to this at all."

"There's  _got_ to be a cure!" She insisted, "After all, she was planning on turning you back after you'd eaten me!"

He shrugged one shoulder in a gesture that belied a trained elegance that his current form could not execute. A small seed of pity settled in her stomach.

"Perhaps," he said again, "But Bellatrix is as likely to give a false hope as a true one. I have seen her do it before."

Hermione did not ask what part he had played in her past schemes or what other damnable things he had done in his past, but she turned away from him all the same, the growing pity firmly squashed. "Well, we should find her and ask anyway," she said.

A clawed hand closed around the wrist that held the wand. He did not hold her tight enough to hurt, although she had no doubt that hurt her he could, but it did stop her walking away from him. She turned to look quizzically at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Surely you do not mean to find Bellatrix to  _talk_ ," he said, disbelief coloring his every word.

"Well, how else will we—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head urgently, "You don't understand. When we find her, you must kill her at once. Give her no time to talk, for if she can utter so much as a single word, she will curse you into nothingness. It would be best to hit her in the back before she knows we are even there. That is the only way."

Hermione gaped at him for a moment, stunned. Once she recovered herself, "Shoot her in the back?" she spluttered, "That's so  _cowardly_! If we just talk—"

" _Hermione_." And it was his use of her given name that gave her pause. She realized, in a detached way, that it was the third time he had ever said her name. "Do not think that I would make a coward of you. I know that you are too brave— and indeed maybe too foolish— for that. But consider Crookshanks," he gestured down at the cat, who was sitting off to one side, watching them with the lazy orange eyes of a cat who knows what's going to happen next and can't be bothered to care just yet. "He came here to help us escape, not so you could ruin us all by letting Bellatrix win. She kept you alive the first time to learn how you managed to sneak into her garden and she kept you alive the second time as revenge against me. The third time you face her, she will cut you down as surely as the sun rises in the east."

Although she did not like it, she saw the reason in his words and heard the concern in his voice. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "But I won't kill her," she said. "I've never cast a killing curse before and I'm not sure I'd be able to do it. From what I've read, you have to really  _mean_ it, and even now I'm not sure I could take a life as easily as all that."

Draco gaped. It was a disconcerting sight on a face so filled with pointed teeth. "Then what  _will_  you do?"

She gave him a little smile. "Surely, I am clever," she said, "I will find a way."

He opened his mouth to argue against her plan but, " _Draco_ ," she said, and her use of his given name gave him pause, "Trust me. Where do you think she'll be this time of day?"

She could not read the expression in his unnaturally yellow eyes as he stared down at her. Eventually, "It is just before sunset. She will be dozing in the drawing room until dark falls and her lord comes to visit. We must hurry. If we tarry too long, then the lord himself will arrive and then all hope is lost."

"I'm sure he can't be any worse than  _Bellatrix_ ," Hermione snorted.

Draco was quiet for a long moment, but at last, he said in a voice that sounded very far away, "May you never learn otherwise."

* * *

It was just as Draco said. They found her dozing on a vermillion chaise lounge in a yellow parlor off the dining room. Her dark hair was spread around her like a crown and her head was pillowed on her folded arms, her wand just visible in her right hand. She snored softly and although Hermione, Draco, and Crookshanks stood in the doorway, she did not stir.

Now that the time had come, Hermione found that her hand did not shake as she pointed her wand at the sleeping witch, although she was very frightened. In a quiet whisper, she uttered the spell. With a sound like water being sucked down a drain, Bellatrix's wand bounced onto the carpeted floor and rolled under the chaise. Bellatrix dropped beside it, whiskers wriggling furiously. Almost at once she began to scamper toward the carpet.

"A  _mouse_?" Draco said incredulously beside her. "You turned her into a  _mouse_? What good will that do? Quick! Before she escapes! We have to—"

But Draco was not the only one who had seen the change. With a flick of his tail, Crookshanks was nothing more than an orange streak across the carpet. He made not a sound as he pounced upon the transfigured witch, little boots slamming her against the carpet.

Draco and Hermione watched as Bellatrix Lestrange died with a shake of a cat's head, but they turned away as he began to feast upon his prey.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, looking worriedly into his face.

His ears, which had still been turned toward the sounds of the cat enjoying his supper, flicked back towards her. "What do you mean?" He asked, "Because of your quick thinking, she did us no harm. Well, no more than she's done already."

"She  _was_  your aunt," Hermione pointed out. She was not sorry she had done it, and she wasn't going to apologize. Bellatrix had killed her family, killed her friends, tortured her and ruined her life in all the ways that mattered. But it would be good to know if she could still count Draco as an ally or if their strange truce had reached its end.

He barked a laugh. Crookshanks looked up, quizzical gaze fixed on Draco. There was blood all across his muzzle. "That ogress?" He shook his head, "Although we were related, she was no kin to me."

She nodded, satisfied. Crookshanks returned to his meal. She watched him for a moment. She knew it was far from over, of course, but she could hardly believe that the witch who had haunted her thoughts and hunted her steps for so long was finally dead. Now that it was over, it seemed almost like a let-down. It had all wrapped up so nicely. Surely, she would have expected that of a fairy tale, but not of real life. Real life never went so well as all this.

Eventually, "Can I ask why, though?" he said.

"Why what?" she replied.

"Why a mouse?"

"Well," Hermione chose her words carefully, "Between my family and you, it was starting to seem like she had a penchant for having people eat one another. It seemed...fitting...that she meets her end as a meal. Madame Greengrass initially got Crookshanks to deal with a rodent problem. He's a world-class mouser. Did you know that?"

He gaped openly at her. She didn't meet his gaze.

At long last, "You," he said, "Are perhaps the cleverest, most devious, witch I think I've ever met."

"Thank you," she replied.

At long last the deed was done and not a scrap of Bellatrix Lestrange remained but what could be found in the belly of a cat. When Crookshanks kicked off one little boot to wash his face with a paw, Draco drew a set of keys off of a little table beside the window. It jangled between his claws and he said, "Now then, as off-putting as that was, neither of us have eaten anything in half a week, so let's go to the kitchen and find a supper of our own."

She giggled, "I think it would be lunch, actually, since it's only just past midday."

He shook his wolfish head, "Supper," he insisted, "I missed dinner the night we were captured and I intend to have it now. Now follow me. I know the way and which key to use."

"And where shall we go after that?" she asked as she followed him back through the door.

From behind, she watched as his ears swiveled around in contemplation but remained mostly pointed up. She marveled at how easy he was to read by his ears. The keys jangled in his grasp as he readied a key, unlocked a door and walked through it. She followed him into another hallway.

"I think," he said eventually, "After that, we should leave. We have only a few hours until sunset and by then I am sure Bellatrix's," He paused again. Words were heavy when he said them like they were difficult to produce around his many pointed teeth, "Associates. She entertains every evening and although I know not who we might meet tonight, I do not want to be here when they arrive. That being said, I don't think we should go empty handed. Although I am no longer welcome among my family and comrades, I doubt your allies will look favorably upon my arrival. We should bring something of value to endear me to them. The Weasleys don't have much, so perhaps some treasure would be in order."

But Hermione was only half-listening. Her eyes were fixed upon the heavy ring of keys. "Why does she have so many," she asked, gesturing to the jangling mass.

Draco glanced down at them as if they were nothing special. "Old families always have treasures they want to keep away from prying eyes. Every door of any import remains locked. These are the only keys to many of them."

"What sort of treasures does Bellatrix have?" Hermione asked.

"There is a great store of gold," he said and selected a thin, gold key, which he held up to her. "This is the key to the vault in the first study. If you'd like the gold, I will take you there."

But Hermione shook her head. She had no interest in gold; she could not hope to carry so much away from here.

"Then, if you'd prefer, there is a great store of silver," he said and shuffled through the merrily ringing mass until he found a silver key, which he held up to her, "This is the key to the safe in the second study. If you'd like the silver, I will take you there."

But again, Hermione shook her head. She had no use for silver; if she was going to weigh herself down with anything, it would have been the gold.

"In that case, there is a great store of jewels," he said and plucked from the shining horde a key inlaid with many precious gems, which he held up to her, "This is the key to the chest in the third study. If you'd like the jewels, I will take you there."

Hermione looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. If she wanted  _anything_ , she'd have taken the gold! It would at least buy more books than either the silver or the jewels. Was he joking with her? It was hard to tell. And who had that many studies, anyway? Just how uselessly big  _was_  this place? More to take the attention off of the sheer preposterousness of this entire situation than anything else, she gestured to the smallest key. It was different than all the rest in its startling plainness. It was a tarnished black metal with a coating of rust between its teeth, but its handle was polished with frequent use. "What is that the key for?" she asked.

"This one?"

She nodded in confirmation when his claws picked that key in question from the bunch.

"This is the key to the cellar."

She waited for him to say more but, when further information was not immediately forthcoming, she asked, "What's in the cellar?"

"I do not know," he confessed and unlocked yet another door, "The only ones allowed in the basement are Bellatrix and the Dark Lord himself. Not even my father has been down there."

This snagged Hermione's interest at once. "We should go down there," she said and, when the rumble of her stomach answered before he could, she amended, "After we eat, of course."

"The basement?" he said, "Why? Things have fallen in our favor. I am sure our luck will not hold." Left and right they turned; Through one door and then another they passed. Each hallway was exactly the one before it; Each door was exactly the same. This place was a labyrinth, and Hermione counted herself lucky that Draco knew the way, for surely without him she would have been hopelessly lost with no clue of where to go.

But Hermione had no such doubts. Her victory over Bellatrix sang in her blood like courage and so she paid Draco's concerns no heed. "Because she's never let you go there," she replied eagerly, rubbing her hands together, "I suspect she keeps something of import down there. It could be really important to the cause. Battle plans or secret codes or something. We can't leave without at least looking."

"Now then," he paused in front of a large wooden door that looked no different from the last one they had passed through, "This is the kitchen. Please help yourself to whatever you wish and I," he grinned, and although he revealed too many sharp teeth and looked more a beast than ever, she was not frightened at all, "will do the same."

"After that," she said, "We will see what is in the basement."

"Truly, Red Riding Hood," he gave her a little grin, which she returned despite its strangeness, "Your curiosity will be our undoing. Perhaps we should collect supplies before our foray into the basement," he suggested, "Bellatrix was far from the most terrible of beasts in the Dark Lord's employ and I would hate to meet something worse before we can escape."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Puss in Boots; Beauty and the Beast; Theseus and the Minotaur (ok there's a pun here and it's too good not to share. So, in the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, Ariadne (Minos's daughter who falls in love with Theseus) gives Theseus a ball of yarn to help him get through the maze. A ball of yarn is called a clew. When Hermione's thinking about what a LABYRINTH the Black Castle is, she actually thinks that without Draco (our Ariadne stand-in), she would be lost without a CLUE of where to go! Get it? CLUE. CLEW. I must be from a Thomas Pynchon story because I'm HILARIOUS.); Bluebeard


	16. The Wolf in the Cellar

After they had eaten their fill, Hermione deposited their dishes in the sink. When she turned back around to face her companion, she found him hefting a carving knife as long as her forearm in one large, clawed hand. It glinted menacingly in the torchlight.

"What will you do with  _that_ , pray tell?" Hermione asked, her eyes flying of their own accord to the wand she had left upon the kitchen table. She licked her lips and pretended that she was not afraid.

As if sensing her growing trepidation— and in retrospect, Hermione will wonder if he could smell it— the hand holding the knife dropped to his side and the left one raised, palm-up, in a placating gesture. "I mean only to arm myself against whatever we might find," he assured her quickly. "I have no wand and I do not wish to be left so defenseless in these dark times."

And because this was a reasonable response and Hermione was a reasonable girl, she nodded her head and went to retrieve her wand.

"Is there anything  _else_  you'd like to do before we see what terrible things are lurking in the basement?" she asked, but her attempt at humor fell flat as he seriously considered her question.

"Cloaks," he said at last. "I do not think we will find one so rich and lovely as the red one you wore, but perhaps we will find something that might do in its stead."

"Where do you think we'll be going?" she could not keep from asking.

"I know not," he replied, "but winter will be upon us soon and it would be dangerous to be caught in the cold without them."

And, again, because this was a fair response and Hermione was a fair girl, she nodded her head and they went to a little closet down the hallway to retrieve two cloaks. Hermione chose a thick, wool cloak— the simplest she could find among the elegant silks and rich furs— to ward off the chill that had not left her since leaving their tower. Draco chose a long, dark green one, with which he tried to hide as much of his misshapen form as he could, although he told Hermione that it was only for warmth that he threw it across his shoulders. Then, more to dispel the sharp look she was giving him than anything else, Draco withdrew the large key ring again and held it out, rifling through them and selecting, at last, the smallest key.

Because he saw the way she had begun to squirm with curious anticipation, "We will go to the basement now," he informed her. "But I must warn you once more, I know not what is down there, only that she did not wish me to see it."

She nodded and glanced toward the window. "Yes. And that is reason enough to look. How long will we have to search and be gone?"

"A few hours." Draco shrugged one sloping shoulder. "After that, the others will descend upon the estate and it will be impossible to get out."

With a little sigh that failed to hide the thrill of excitement that ran through her, Hermione got to her feet. "We should hurry, then."

So Draco led the way through the labyrinthine house, taking turns seemingly at random and opening nondescript doors without pausing for a moment. At long last, they stood before the cellar door and once again Draco held the littlest key between two long, black claws. He unlocked the door, which swung open soundlessly.

The stale air swirled out around them and, "Lumos," said Hermione. Then she took one step and then another down the stone steps.

"Wait," Came Draco's hushed growl as his claws tapped onto the flagstones behind her. She could just hear the jangling of the keys as he hastily stuffed them into the pocket of his robes.

"What for?" she whispered back. They heard no voices. No sounds at all, in fact, but there was something about the cavernous dark that waited like an inky sea below them that all but demanded silence. It seemed to swallow up their whispered conversation and even the pearlescent glow from her wand illuminated only a few steps ahead of them. Beyond that, everything was impossibly silent and incredibly dark.  _Like a tomb_ , Hermione thought. She began to wonder if maybe her curiosity had gotten the better of her  _again_. If she had listened to Draco, they would be well away from here by now, instead of wandering into suffocating blackness, looking for whatever it was that they weren't supposed to find.

 _But_ , she reasoned,  _Curiosity is why I've gotten this far at all!_  And with that thought, she squared her shoulder and walked more boldly down the stairs.

At long last, they reached the foot of the staircase and looked around. It seemed almost disappointingly empty. A few cases of wine leaned against a wall, covered in cobwebs and all but forgotten. Torches dotted the walls every few feet. With a whispered incantation, Hermione kindled two with bright blue flames. She handed one over to Draco and kept the other for herself. She was happy for the discovery of the torches; it left her wand free for other spells, should the need arise.

"Stay close," said Draco, his voice was barely audible even though he was close enough that his breath ghosted across the back of her neck. "She's probably set traps."

They stayed close together as they explored the cellar and so made the discovery together.

"What do you think it is?" She asked, taking a step nearer to the wall.

Draco held out a long arm to stop her. "No," he said, "Do not touch it."

"It doesn't look like much of anything," Hermione griped. "It's just a little cup."

"Once," he began, his voice low and distant, "there was a necklace of finest jewels that was cursed to bring a wicked spirit to claim the soul of whoever so much as touched it with their littlest finger."

She could barely suppress an eye roll. He was being too dramatic. The tension was high enough already. "Yes, and I'm sure that it was given to some poor unsuspecting girl by some evil wizard."

He shuffled beside her and she felt rather than saw his one-shouldered shrug. "She did survive," he conceded, "But it was a close thing."

And suddenly the story felt less like make-believe and more like burying Astoria's bones underneath the juniper tree. She could almost feel the dirt beneath her nails again. Although she feared the answer, Hermione was a brave girl and so she asked anyway. "And was this another one of You Know Who's evil schemes?"

The silence stretched like a taut bow between them until, after reaching some sort of internal conclusion, "No," Draco said, "It was one of mine."

She turned to him, torch lifted to show the strange line of his inhuman face, readying one hundred-hundred questions on the tip of her tongue, but he held up a hand before she could ask a single one. "I'll tell you anything you'd like to know," he promised, "Later. After all of this is done. For now, we must face the problem before us, not the problems behind us."

Although she did not like it, Hermione knew that this was a sensible thing to do and so she returned her attention to the little cup secured to the wall by twelve black chains.

"How shall we break the chains to retrieve the cup? Surely your aunt will have put many, many spells upon the chains. It's what I would have done, anyway. It's probably pointless to try an unlocking spell."

"Probably lethal to try it. And perhaps we could refer to her by name and not by her relation to my mother," drawled the beast.

"She doesn't stop being your aunt just because she's," Hermione cast around for a suitable thing to call the now-deceased witch.

"Evil?" Draco supplied. "Crazier than a box full of boggarts? Far inferior in looks and sense to the rest of the family? Dead?"

Hermione giggled. Draco grinned.

"Anyway," she said, recovering herself, "Let's see." She took a step forward and, "I'm only going to look at them. I won't touch them," she promised, and his arm fell back to his side again, where he'd secured the carving knife in the belt of his robes. It glittered strangely in the torchlight; like a thing made of magic instead of steel.

Hermione looked at the wall and thought for a moment and then, quick as a wink, pointed her wand at the stone where one of the chains fit into it. "Bombarda!" She shouted and  _crack!_  went the stone, sending up a small cloud of dust. When the debris settled one of the twelve chains lay coiled and harmless on the ground like a dead, black snake. Although it was never unlocked, it was all but useless now. When the noise died away, the silence rang loud in their ears.

"Where did you learn that one?" He asked, his ethereal eyes glinting in the blue light as he admired the fist-sized hole in the stonework.

"Oh," she said offhandedly as she aimed her wand at the next chain, "A book at the Burrow. Bombarda!" And again, the section of wall exploded.

"Clever," he murmured, but she could not hear him over the rumble and clatter of breaking brick.

This she repeated twelve times until all the chains were dropped to the cold stone floor and the little golden cup clattered to the ground and rolled innocuously onto its side.

"It doesn't  _look_  dangerous," She said, leaning over it.

"The most dangerous things never do," he replied. He unclasped his cloak and threw it carefully over the little cup. Slowly and surely, he gathered the cloak around it and tied it off in a tight knot so that not a glimmer of gold showed through.

She eyed the parcel, which he still held out from his person like it would burn him. Although the lines of his face betrayed no hint of emotion, his ears were pinned flat against his head like an anxious dog's.

"I hardly think all  _that's_  necessary," she commented, gesturing towards the parcel.

One ear flicked toward her as his eyebrows raised. "If you trust nothing else I say, trust this: Whatever this cup is, Bellatrix guarded it more carefully than any of the other treasures I know she possesses. I do not think that it will be so easy to steal as this."

Hermione, remembering the firebird and her initial capture, nodded and swallowed down the lump of trepidation that rose like bile in the back of her throat.

Once they'd finished searching the dungeon for any other prize and found nothing, Draco and Hermione walked back to the stone staircase and were about to walk up it when about halfway up they spied Crookshanks, whose tail swished back and forth in agitation as he stared down at them, fur stuck out all around his head like a mane.

"Crooks," cooed Hermione, scampering a few steps ahead of Draco and trying to move around Crookshanks towards the door. "What is it, boy?"

And Crookshanks backed up another step to remain between her and the wood. He let out a low, slow growl, his tail twitching furiously. Hermione tried to take another step around to him, but the growl rose and he backed up another step above hers, slashing toward her with extended claws. Hermione just barely managed to jerk back in time to avoid being cut. Crookshanks ears pressed flat against his head as he hissed, showing all his teeth.

"Crooks," Hermione said, more sad than angry and more confused than sad. "What on  _earth_?" For whatever reason, he did not want her to ascend the stairs.

And it was then that she heard the voices behind the closed door above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Bluebeard, Puss in Boots, Koschei the Deathless


	17. Beware the Wolf Caught in the Trap

All at once, Draco was beside her, his ears twitching furiously as someone laughed. Crookshanks looked up at them and let out a small, fearful mew.

She felt, rather than heard, his low growl. It rumbled through her chest and raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. She turned to face her companion and, sure enough, in the faint glow of their torches, she could see the snarl curling around his muzzle, exposing sharp, angry teeth and even the sheen of pink gums. His eyes flashed dangerously below a wrinkled forehead. His ears pointed straight ahead at the wooden door and the fur around his neck stuck out, making him appear larger and more intimidating than before. The torch was still clutched in one hand and the cloth-bundled cup in the other, but his black claws flexed around both, causing the wood of the torch to creak as if under great pressure. He stood stiffly beside her, his entire body wound tight like a coiled spring, like a tiger about to pounce, focused completely on the dark door and the voices beyond it.

 _How easy it might be_ , she thought as if from far away, fo _r those teeth to tear out my throat. For those claws to cut me open from neck to navel. Why, it would hardly be any work at all for a beast like that to gut me like a fish._ And she remembered that it had been Bellatrix's plan all along for him to eat her, for hunger to prove him the beast he resembled.

And in short, she was afraid.

But his black nose twitched as he turned toward her slightly, the ire leaking out of him like a balloon deflating. After everything was over, she would be sure that he had smelled her fear because she could see the shame and apology in his eyes, although she could not recognize it for what it was at the time. At the time, she could hardly see beyond the haze of fear and those inhuman yellow eyes. Without remembering when she moved, she had pressed herself flat against the cold wall, as far from him as she could get on the stair where they stood.

She felt a pressure against her leg and looked down to see Crookshanks on his hind legs, pressing his front paws against her thigh, looking up at her with a worried expression on his squashed face. In that detached way that fear so often inspires in even the bravest minds, she realized that Crookshanks was no longer wearing his boots.

Although she was sure that Draco, too, had noticed the distance she had put between them and although his ears and eyes remained turned fixedly on the wooden door as if expecting it to fly open at any moment, he smoothed his features into a bored expression and drawled, "I know those voices."

The calmness in his voice allowed Hermione the chance to collect herself and once sense had returned to her, she was annoyed with herself in no small measure for her momentary fear. It was a momentary lapse in judgment and common sense, one she swore to herself she would not repeat. "Whose voices are those?" she asked, choosing to ignore the waver in her own voice.

Mercifully, Draco ignored it too, and said, "They belong to Fenrir Greyback and Rodolphus Lestrange."

Incomprehension must have shown on Hermione's face because he helpfully supplied, "Rudolphus Lestrange is— was— Bellatrix's husband. He might match her cruelty but not her intelligence."

"And Greyback?" she prompted.

He could not help the curl of his lip but he noticed the way her eyes dropped to his long, yellow teeth. "He is a werewolf," Draco said when he had regained some composure. "He is barely a wizard; hardly even human. He prays on young children," he growled. "And leads the werewolves that follow the Dark Lord."

Hermione, who had read about werewolves before, felt her brow wrinkle in confusion and said, "But it's daytime still, or at least I think it should be, and the full moon shouldn't be for another few weeks anyway."

Draco seemed to goggle at her for a moment before saying, "How do you know—"

"Well, the lunar cycle is important in brewing some potions, so I keep an eye on it. It's quite easy to remember, once you've gotten in the habit," she interrupted, having had to explain something similar to Ron only a few months before. She gave a one-shouldered shrug. She did not tell him that the world of witches and wizards was so strange that she consumed every piece of information the way a starving dog eats. She did not mention that she hoarded facts and figures and wore them like armor in a world she barely understood. She did not say that understanding all the small pieces helped her see the pattern of the whole world, or at least she hoped that someday it might.

Although perhaps he understood anyway because he nodded sharply and said, "Fenrir Greyback is no less terrible for being trapped in a human form. Perhaps, even, he is worse. He is wolfish even as a man and in this form, he can control his own mind. Human cruelty and wolfish strength are a terrible combination."

"Indeed," she said, giving him a long, pointed look.

"It is not the same at all," he sniffed, tilting his muzzle in the air.

"Oh really?" she raised a single eyebrow.

"Indeed," he huffed. "I, at least, am a gentleman."

"A gentleman and a wolf," her mouth quirked up in a little smile. "How lucky I am to have a companion who is both."

He opened his mouth to reply, but then swiveled his head back to the door as a third voice joined the other two. "Rabastan Lestrange," he murmured, and then fell silent to listen for a moment. "He wants to know why they haven't come down here after us yet."

Hermione felt cold all over. How did they know? Had they set off some alarm when they'd come down here? She looked at the little parcel cradled in Draco's massive paw. Of course, there had been some alarm. It seemed so obvious now. She strained her ears to make out individual words, but through the wood she could only make out the muted sounds of muffled voices. She could not even truly tell them apart.

"They can't force the door," Draco said, relief coloring his voice. "Apparently only the one who has the keys can open it." He glanced down at his robes, to the pocket where he had stored the ring of keys. "So they're waiting for us to come out. They mean to ambush us."

Hermione licked her dry lips. "How many of them are there?" she asked.

"Four," Draco said, but his ears continued to swivel. "Five, no, seven."

She held her breath, waiting for more information.

"Ten. Maybe more. Goyle— he's slow and stupid but loyal to the Dark Lord. The Carrows— cruel and clever. A few are Fenrir's werewolves. I don't know them by name."

Still, his ears waggled back and forth. His nose twitched slightly as if he was looking for a particular scent. On a hunch, she asked, "Who are you looking for?"

He hesitated for a moment before saying, "My parents."

"Ah," she said at last. And then, "Have you found them?"

"No, but I'm not sure how many have gathered there now. It seems like many, but they're waiting for..." his voice trailed off and he stiffened suddenly. His eyes were wide, his ears were pressed flat against his head.

"What is it?" she asked, pressing closer to him again, "Draco?"

"Take off your cloak," he ordered.

"I beg your pardon," she replied, standing a little straighter, hair beginning to expand with indignation.

"Please, Hermione."

It was the foreign note of desperation in his voice that kept her from asking any other questions. Transferring the torch to the hand that also held her wand, she unfastened the cloak and held it mutely out to him.

He hooked it on one claw and held it up in front of her. "Quick as you can, cast every protective and concealing charm you can on it."

"What? I—"

"Please."

She glared at him but complied anyway. When she was done, he held it out to her again.

"Put it on, and try to keep as covered as you can." He said and threw it roughly over her shoulders.

Before she could protest again, he had pushed the cloth bundle toward her and scooped Crookshanks into his arms.

"Drop the torch," he urged softly. "We have to go. Now. And I need you to hold Crookshanks."

"What?" She said even as she set the torch on the step below where they stood, adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, and wedged the parcel under her arm to make room to take the cat who was being unceremoniously thrust into her unready hands. "If they can't get in here, couldn't we just wait them out or look for another exit? Why are we in such a hurry now?"

"He's coming." Replied Draco as he pulled the carving knife from his belt.

This gave her pause. "Surely you don't mean—"

"The Dark Lord. Yes. They've summoned him. The wards around Bellatrix's basement have gone off and she's nowhere to be found, so they know she must be dead. We don't have long before he arrives."

Fear ran like ice through her veins. Everything swam into sharp focus. The yellow of his eyes boring urgently into her seemed unnaturally bright; the air around them was sharp and cold; the cat, heavy in her arms, was impossibly warm. She had never met You Know Who before, but she knew enough about him to know that his arrival would surely mean death and perhaps even worse.

Her mind was forming and reforming plans, but each seemed more absurd than the last and she had to admit to herself that she did not know who was waiting on the other side of the door, so she did not know what to expect from them. But Draco did. "What's your plan?" she asked.

"They know that Bellatrix took a prisoner last week. Rodolphus has searched the house and found not a living soul, so he suspects that her prisoner broke out, overpowered her, and has hidden in this basement. Someone who had broken into her garden. But they do not know who. Your name is not known to them because you are not known to them. You, a witch born of muggles, cannot even truly exist. They suspect that it is a member of Dumbledore's army— the Order of the Phoenix— who is down here." He smiled grimly. "This is where they are mistaken. They do not suspect that I am here— Bellatrix will surely have done that much for my family, since my betrayal of the cause would mean punishment for her as well as for my mother and father— and they certainly do not suspect that I am now like this," he gestured with a clawed hand to his altered form. "They expect whoever is down here to come out casting curses. They will not expect a beast with a knife. While I distract them, you and Crookshanks might have a chance to escape."

"What?!" spluttered Hermione.

"Keep your voice down," cautioned Draco, "With any luck, your cloak will keep you from being noticed."

She opened her mouth but—

"There's no time to argue, Hermione," he said before she could say a word, "There was never much of a chance for me in the first place. The Order was never going to forgive me for my crimes and I would never have asked it of them— I have done far too much to far too many to ever warrant it. Even if that were not so," he continued as if reading the argument she was about to make, "There is no place— neither among wizards or muggles— for a beast like what I have become."

Again she opened her mouth but again he pressed on before she could utter even a word. "And yes, perhaps you could have found a cure. I am sure that if ever there was anyone who could undo the curse Bellatrix has placed on me, it would have been you. But there is no time for that now."

"N—"

"No, listen, Hermione," he cut in sharply, "I did not want to mention this because I do not know if it is true, but there is a story that the Dark Lord hid his death in seven magical items and hid those magical items in seven unlikely places. Harry Potter knows all this already, I am sure, although I doubt he has mentioned it to you. I would not have mentioned it if I saw any other way— such is the nature of secrets like these: they are guarded close by those who have nothing to gain from their veracity and closer still by those that do. When you escape, bring the little cup to Harry Potter. He will know what to do with it."

She could feel tears stinging her eyes but she tried valiantly to blink them away. "No," she said, "There's got to be another way. I'm not going to leave you to die while I slink off into the shadows."

"I'm sure there is," he conceded, and ran a fur-covered knuckle across her cheek, careful not to graze her with his sharp claws, clumsily wiping away a tear. "And I am sure that with more time, we could figure out a better way." She could see the fear reflected in his eyes and could think of nothing to say. "But time is a luxury we no longer have. You must escape before the Dark Lord appears or all will be lost." He brushed a lock of her unruly hair behind her ear, his hand lingering briefly over the mass of curls. "Now is not the time for tears, Hermione, but with any luck, your cloak will keep you hidden and there will be time enough to cry your heart out later." He dropped his hand and his gaze to Crookshanks, caressing the cat's head. Crookshanks' eyes closed and he pressed his head faithfully into Draco's palm.

His last goodbye to the cat completed, he returned his gaze to the still-sniffling Hermione. He tugged her hood over her head and looked toward the door, "I've always been partial to green," he confessed, "But I think this cloak does not suit you half as well as your own, Little Red Riding Hood."

She gave him a watery smile. "I am at least old enough not to be called little anymore," she replied, recalling a conversation in the woods that could have been a week or lifetimes ago. "I would thank you kindly to remember that."

"I am sure you are," He returned her smile with a shaky one of his own. He took one step forward and then another until he stood on the final step. "But you are so much shorter than I am," he set his glowing torch on the ground beside himself and pulled the ring of keys from his pocket, "And for as long as that is true," he fitted the smallest key into the little lock, "Then to me," with one last look at her over his shoulder, in one hand he gripped the carving knife, in the other he gripped the key, "Little you shall remain."

And the world exploded into light and noise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Bluebeard, Beauty and the Beast, Thousandfurs
> 
> "And in short, she was afraid." Line stolen shamelessly from T. S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (line 87), although the original reads, "And in short, I was afraid."


	18. A Pack of Wolves

 

Draco leaped through the doorway with a ferocious snarl and connected with a streak of equally-snarling gray with a sound like a fist connecting with concrete. Hermione just barely had time to catch sight of the glint of the carving knife as they tumbled out of sight. Red and green light flashed across the doorway as a cacophony of voices, now clear without the impediment of the door, spilled down the stairs.

"What the  _hell_?"

"What  _is_  that thing?"

"Does it matter? Kill it!"

"What if I hit Greyback?"

"Who cares if you hit Greyback?"

"Don't you  _dare_  hit Greyback!"

Clutching her cloak tightly about her shoulders and pressing Crookshanks and the cup tightly to her chest, she closed her eyes against the blinding lights and made her way as quiet as a mouse up the stairs. In her arms, Crookshanks buried his face in the crook of her elbow. The light surely was bothering him, too. He made a small squeak and, hysterically,  _Blind mice!_  Hermione thought,  _that's what we are now!_  Her stomach clenched as she remembered Bellatrix in the seconds after Crookshanks pounced. She swallowed thickly.

"It's killed Greyback!"

"Then shoot to kill, you idiots!"

"Don't let it-aagh!"

A snarl ripped through the air as something heavy— probably a person— hit the floor.

Hermione's eyes were adjusting to the brightness by now and she crept up from the basement fully now and into the light, looking cautiously around. The first thing that she noticed was the large mass of gray robes and skin that lay beside the cellar door, dark red blood leaking from numberless punctures and tears. The second thing she noticed was that no one seemed to be looking at her— a sure sign that her charms and wards were holding fast. All eyes and wands were trained on a writhing mass a dozen yards from the cellar door. She watched in horror as the beast— Draco, she reminded herself— reared back, its jaws snapping in the air as it howled in pain. The carving knife flashed in his hand as he brought it down into the wizard pinned beneath his weight. For an instant, his face turned toward her and Hermione saw that where his eyes, once unnaturally yellow, were clouded over and unseeing.

"He's got Rodolphus!"

He was blind.

And turned toward her as if he knew exactly where she was despite the fact that he could not see.

He snarled in her direction and brought the carving knife down again into his foe. In that sound, she heard many things. She heard  _Do not let me sacrifice be in vain._  She heard  _I cannot hold their attention forever and surely before the minute has passed they will be looking for others_. She heard  _I would if I could, but I cannot so you must_. And above all else, she heard one command ringing out without words:  _Run_.

And how she ran!

After all was said and done, she would not remember what twists and turns she followed or even how long she ran until she passed through the final door and came, at last, to find herself panting in the light.

She paused for breath beside an enormous linden tree that grew tall and proud beside the castle. Her eyes scanned the skyline for friend or foe. The fresh air was crisp and cool and the late afternoon sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, but she dared not to take even a moment to enjoy it.

She scrambled through her mind and at last seized upon the memory of the quiet moment she had shared with her wolf in the woods. Pushing back the memories of where those thoughts lead, "Expecto patronum!" she shouted. "To the Burrow," she commanded. A pearlescent otter hit the ground at a run and scampered out of sight. Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do. She did not know where to find help and did not know if her patronus could reach anyone in time, anyway. She watched the sky for a moment anyway as she gasped for breath.

Once she had regained some strength, though, it was time to continue on. Hermione was hopeful, not stupid. She would not stand on the threshold of damnation and wait for help; She'd go out and find it herself. She set off at a run across the rolling hills of the enormous estate, heading in the direction she thought the gardens were.

The second time she paused to catch her breath she leaned against a second old linden tree that grew tall and proud on a grassy knoll some distance from the castle. She scanned the sky, looking for any sign of an approaching dark lord or, almost desperately, for someone who might have been able to help, but for the second time she saw neither and hurried onward once she'd caught her breath. She tried not to think of Draco, trapped somewhere in the house behind her.

Crookshanks leaped from her arms and ran beside her as she hurried across the wide, green expanse of the grounds, her cloak billowing behind her like a great, viridian beast.

The third time she paused to catch her breath she leaned against a third old linden tree that grew tall and proud in a little valley some ways from the castle. She scanned the sky and a choking breath caught in her throat. Just a tiny speck but growing larger all the time, something was hurrying towards her through the sky. She squinted, unsure whether she should scream or cheer. Heartbeats grew into long, gasping breaths. As it grew nearer, she thought she could make out a glimmering of light. She strained her eyes further, unsure whether it was friend or foe. Breaths grew into long, painful seconds. Now she was  _sure_  she could see wings and they seemed to be on fire. Seconds grew into long, torturous minutes. She stared, unsure whether it was salvation or a mirage.

When he was close enough that she could see the way his hair ruffled in the wind and the way the light from the phoenix glimmered in his eyes, she finally shouted his name. "Harry!" She called as she ran toward him.

As the firebird set him gently down beside her, Hermione Granger saw for the first time that, if there ever was such a thing as brave knights or story-book heroes, Harry Potter was one. In his left hand he held loosely a shining sword Hermione didn't recognize and in his right hand, he clutched his wand. The great, flaming bird circled around his head, trumpeting out sounds of pure gold which settled in her stomach like liquid courage.

"Hermione!" He shouted as he too ran to close the distance between them. "Fawkes came to find me two days ago. I didn't know what he wanted at first but he insisted. What happened? Where are we? Where did you go? I woke up and you were gone and that was  _days_  ago! Did you find Ron? Where are we?"

"There's no time to explain!" She panted out and then fumbled with her parcel.

"Hermione," Harry said, understanding lacing his tone as the gold of the little cup shone in the fading light. "Do you know what—"

"No, Harry Potter, I  _don't_ ," She replied. Her tone would have been accusing if it hadn't sounded so urgent, "Because no one's explained it to me properly. And now's  _not_  the time to start." She went on hastily. "Draco's back there and he's hurt. Maybe even," she swallowed thickly. She couldn't say it. "Look, take this and...do something with it. You Know Who's coming so you need to take this and get out of here. Right now. I've got to go back. He's hurt." she knew she was babbling now, but she couldn't stop the words. If the words stopped, she'd have to think about it, and she didn't want to do that right now.

"Go back?" Harry looked more confused than ever. Reluctantly, he took the parcel from her but held it away from himself as though it might attack at any moment.

"The Castle Black, or whatever it's called," she snapped hastily. "Look, it's right over that hill. Harry Potter, are you going to take this ridiculous little cup or not?"

But Harry Potter, while every inch the storybook hero, was not getting the picture. "Draco? As in Draco Malfoy? Malfoy's involved with this somehow?"

"Harry Potter! We have  _maybe_  five minutes before You Know Who—"

 _Crack! Crack! Crack!_ the sound of many apparitions cut through the still air. Crookshanks hissed and spat, Harry and Hermione stood back to back, wands raised, as figures materialized around them. Hermione readied a stunning spell on the tip of her tongue, but a flash of red froze her arm before she could cast it, unable to believe her eyes or her good fortune.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted beside her, for he was quicker to action and slower to thought that she was.

There was a bang and a figure shot backward with a cry of surprise.

"Harry!" She said just as a different voice said, "Bill!"

Harry looked at her, eyebrows raised over his crooked spectacles, and then he looked out at the figures around them.

 _Crack! Crack! Crack!_  came the sounds of more witches and wizards pouring into the field around them on all sides.

"Ron!" She shouted and pelted toward the figure nearest to her. "Fred! George!"

"Hermione!" Said Ron and the twins together.

"You got it then?" She asked breathlessly.

"Your patronus? Yeah, but it didn't make any sense!" Said Ron.

"Where are we?" Asked one of the twins.

"Why are we here?" Asked the other.

"There isn't any time," she panted, "We have to hurry. Draco's hurt and You Know Who will be here soon."

At her words, everyone who had been listening in— all of the Weasleys and many faces Hermione didn't recognize— froze.

"You Know Who?" Someone whispered.

"Here?" Said another.

"This is it," Said Harry's voice behind her. It was strong and clear and it cut through the tension like a knife. If ever there was a king among men, fit to lead legions into battle and command unquestioning loyalty, Harry Potter was he. "This looks like it's going to be the final battle."

"Is that," began one of the twins.

"The sword of Godric Gryffindor?" Finished the other.

"That's definitely Dumbledore's phoenix," answered Ron.

"What's that under your arm, Harry?" Asked Bill, walking towards them.

Harry's eyes met his. "It is the seventh Horcrux," he said solemnly. In his left hand, he held a magical sword. In his right, he held a wand. Across his shoulders fluttered a cloak of invisibility and above him circled a firebird. At this moment, his word was law, legend, and legacy. No one would cross him now. "Hermione found it."

"Hermione?" All eyes turned to look at the young witch, only to find that she was not where she had been moments before.

"There she is!" Said Charlie, pointing to a quickly retreating dot on the horizon. "Look! She's running toward the castle!"

Harry Potter squinted after his friend. At his feet, Crookshanks gave an encouraging  _meow_. Harry looked down at the cat and wondered, not for the first time, how smart it truly was. "Then we shall follow her," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Three Blind Mice (bonus points if you figured this out as soon as I mentioned the carving knife a few chapters back); Bluebeard; The Three Linden Trees; Ivan Tsarevich and the Sword Kladenets; The Firebird (the Stravinsky variation this time)


	19. What Wolves Fear

 

Afterward, for all the rest of her days, Hermione would only be able to recall the events of that evening in bits and pieces, much the way a shattered mirror will show hundreds of small, jagged fragments of a reflection without any single piece showing very much at all.

In retrospect, some pieces would stand out more than others, of course, but she would never be able to say why she so clearly remembered bursting through the wooden door or aiming her wand at every one of the lengthening shadows of some sitting room or other, but not how she arrived at any particular place. All she could ever say for certain was that her feet slammed heavily against unforgiving stone as she rounded the final corner and almost ran into the broad, black-clad back of a wizard she didn't know.

"Hey—" he began, but he was cut off by Hermione's hastily-uttered curse.

It was not the killing curse— she was still unsure whether she could cast that with true conviction— but it was something nasty enough to garner the attention of the others in the hallway, who seemed to be moving as a unit. She scanned the masks of those gathered here, but not one matched the masks of those who had been gathered around the cellar when she made her escape without Draco. These were the enemy, but they were not the enemy she was searching for. If she tarried here too long, all hope would be lost for Draco.

Before she had decided whether she should stay and fight or flee and search for her friend, a high shriek built into a crescendo of sound around them. It was clear to all who heard it that the keening noise was the death rattle of something that was very nearly human but not quite, and Hermione knew in her bones that Harry Potter had destroyed the seventh horcrux. Before the last echoes of the dying thing had faded from her ears, several of the masked figures before Hermione hissed in pain or clutched their forearms.

"He's here!" Someone shouted, and it was a rallying cry.

Hermione threw up a hasty shield charm as the first volley of curses were thrown at her; the force with which they struck her shield forced her back a few steps. The air smelled like burning tin. She did not wait for the second round of curses but turned back the way she came and took a different turn.

Perhaps then she would have lost heart entirely, but from the passageway behind her, she heard the phoenix's haunting call and she knew that all was not lost just yet. So she readied a spell on the tip of her tongue, looked around the damaged corner, and took aim.

Sometime later— and she would never truly know how much later— Hermione was lost in the labyrinthine structure of the castle. Voices echoed down every hallway and corridor, bouncing toward her from every direction. Torches, evenly spaced, lit her footfalls but provided no hint as to which direction she ought to turn. She walked and walked but found herself no nearer to either friend or foe. Every door was locked and on and on the path twisted. Once she realized how lost she was, she kept her right hand against the right wall and took the right-hand path at every fork and turn she came to, but still, she feared that she might never find a way out.

She was on the cusp of despair when a sound like a rustling of wings reached her ears and she threw herself back against the wall just as the green light of the killing curse exploded the section of the wall where she had just been standing.

A cackle like rats' feet over broken glass reached her ears but seemed to fill her head rather than the air around her. She turned this way and that, her wand raised and pointing at nothing all around her.

"I know you not, little witch," again the voice filled her head, the soft susurrations seemed nearly human, but not quite. Cold fingers of fear trailed up her spine. She pressed her back flat against the wall and turned this way and that. Where was the enemy? From what direction did the voice come?

"I am everywhere, little witch," the voice said. It moved inside her head without disturbing the air around her. It lengthened the shadows and made the torchlight cold and unforgiving. "You know who I am," it slipped the words into her head like a hot knife through butter.

And know it she did. This was the monster at the center of the maze, the wizard that had hidden his death in seven places and could not be killed, the scariest monster in the darkest wood. This was the reason the wolves did not howl on moonless nights. This was the Dark Lord.

But Hermione was as brave as she was clever and so the hand that held her wand did not shake. "Show yourself," she commanded, and her voice did not waver. "Fight me fair and square."

Suddenly he was inside of her mind. Long, cruel fingers sorted through memories, tore through the pathways of her mind as though she was a disorderly cabinet. It yanked the memory of Bellatrix out, watched as Hermione's wand came up, the shifting and unsatisfying end that found the wicked witch, and then the Dark Lord's cold, inhuman mind was gone from hers.

"Well, well, well," the voice said, "It seems as though you are the one who killed my second, little muggle-witch."

She swallowed thickly. She would not live to tell of this, but she could at least die bravely, on her feet, as a witch. "So fight me," she repeated with more courage than she felt.

"Fight you?" echoed the voice, and again the Dark Lord's cold laugh filled her head. "I can taste your fear in the air. I can smell it clinging to your skin. If you should cross wands with me, you will die."

The word die rattled around in her brain like a knife made of ice, but she fought the overwhelming fear and said, "Then you should have no reason not to." She still did not know where to look, and so she looked from one side to the other, waiting for the monster's next move.

"Very well," said the voice, and as if from the stone itself came the Dark Lord.

The voice was less horrible than the face, with its glinting red eyes and slits for nostrils. Its lipless mouth split into a grin that was all the worse for the blunt and square teeth that seemed much too human for a face so monstrous. Its wand, clutched lazily in too-long fingers, was trained at her heart. "And do you know how to begin?" it hissed. She watched its mouth form the words, and in the air, they hissed like a snake. "If you cannot begin properly, then I will kill you now."

Hermione didn't know, but she remembered Draco's words in the bookstore so very long ago and so, without looking away from Voldemort, she bowed stiffly at the waist.

"Now, now," the enemy chided, "You've got to do it properly." She felt a weight like a boulder on her back, and it drove her forward onto the floor, crushing the air out of her lungs. She could feel her ribs crack as the weight pressed down and could not suppress the shout of pain that tore from her lips.

"As if I would fight a muggle. You are not worthy of a wizard's duel." Voldemort's hissing laugh turned the blood sloshing through her veins to ice, but it was rage, not fear, that filled her. She would die like this, crushed under an invisible weight, without ever fighting him. "Slowly, muggle," he crooned wickedly, "The way your village died. Under the weight of a magic you have stolen from a proper witch or wizard." With a lazy flick of his wand, the pressure doubled. Her hands curled into fists even as she fought for each gasping breath under the ever-increasing weight. Blackness bit at the edges of her vision. She could feel the iron tang of blood in her mouth.

"Voldemort!" the voice cut through the haze of pain and oxygen deprivation and from the corner of her eye she saw as Harry Potter came walking toward them, wand upraised. "Your fight is with me!" He called.

Voldemort's snake-like face turned toward Harry and Hermione gathered all of her remaining breath and readied out the first spell she had ever cast. It had saved her once before and, in the fading light of her mind, it was the only thing that remained clear. Lights flashing across her failing vision, "Stupefy," she choked at the same moment she heard, as if from very far away, "Expelliarmus!"

The massive weight on Hermione's back vanished as though it had never been there at all and she choked and spluttered, pulling in gasping breaths of cold air, spitting blood onto the stone beneath her.

"Hermione!" Harry was suddenly kneeling beside her. His hands fluttered nervously around her shoulders, unsure what to do. "Hermione, say something!"

"Where's Voldemort?" she croaked as she pushed herself, trembling, onto her knees. Every gasping breath hurt. She wondered vaguely how many ribs she'd broken. If the pain was any indication, it was quite a few.

"He disapparated rather than face both of us," Harry said. There was an angry glint in his green eyes that Hermione had never seen there before.

Hermione pointed her wand at herself and murmured a spell she had learned from Madame Weasley. Bandages erupted from the tip of her wand and bound themselves loosely around her torso. "Help me up," she wheezed.

Harry held her steady as she got to her feet and she leaned heavily against his support. "I have to find Draco," she croaked. Her voice was hoarse. Her wand was clutched loosely between her fingers and she was not sure she would have the strength to lift it even if she had to.

This time, Harry did not ask any questions but piloted them carefully through the twisting corridors.

"Do you know where you're going?" Hermione said after a few minutes of silent, painful travel.

Harry grinned guiltily, "Sort of. I know the dining hall is this way, and that's where we've been moving the injured or…" his voice trailed off and he looked away. Hermione focused on moving one foot in front of the other and did not ask any more questions.

At long last, they reached the cavernous dining hall. Spread out throughout the room were cots and blankets, and upon each one was laid out a witch or wizard, more than Hermione had ever seen in one place. People darted between them and the overwhelming smells of medicinal tinctures assaulted her nose. Hermione looked this way and that, but a mewing by her feet caught her attention before she found what she was looking for.

"Crooks," she managed to croak out, "Have you seen Draco?"

"Mrrrp!" said the cat, twirled once around her ankles and then disappeared between the rows of cots.

Hermione, still supported by Harry, followed him.

At long last, Crookshanks stopped beside a blanket upon which the bloody, beastly body of Draco Malfoy lay. His robes were badly torn and his skin was split with innumerable cuts and gashes, some of which still oozed blood, thick and black. A piece of one ear was missing. His eyes were closed.

"Sectumsempra," came an airy voice from Hermione's elbow. She turned and found herself staring at a young woman with eyes as blue as the sky, a face as pale as the snow, and lips as red as blood. "He kept fighting even after that, though. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes," Hermione murmured. The blackness was back at the edges of her vision and all at once she was impossibly tired. She was sure that if she closed her eyes, she would sleep for a hundred-hundred years.

"This is Malfoy?" She heard Harry gasp as if from very, very far away. "What on earth happened to him?!"

"Yes, I thought it might be," hummed the witch beside Hermione, rocking forward and backward on her heels and looking Hermione up and down with eyes that seemed to stare through her.

"Luna, you knew it was him and you brought him here anyway?" Harry's voice came in and out of focus. Hermione's eyes remained fixed on Draco.

"Well of course I did, Harry Potter," Luna said. Hermione was not sure if she truly sounded so far away, or if it was just because her head was so filled with cotton. "He was fighting four death eaters at once. I think he might have mauled Rodolphus to death."

Harry swore, but Hermione hardly noticed. Her gaze was glued to the shallow rise and fall of Draco Malfoy's chest.

"I dare say he'll make it," said the witch, Luna, as if reading Hermione's mind.

At long last, Hermione tore her gaze away from Draco's sleeping form and looked at the witch. She nodded once. "Excellent," she whispered and then collapsed where she stood, unconscious at last.

Luna set up a cot for Hermione beside Draco's and set about tending to her new patient, who slept so soundly that if it were not for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, she might have been mistaken for dead.

Hermione did not stir even when Voldemort's voice filled the minds of all the fighters. "I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you." The Dark Lord said, "You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the garden. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

She did not move when Harry Potter answered the call, slipping under his magical cloak and stealing secretly out of the dining hall to face his greatest foe.

She did not open her eyes when, out in a garden where she had once set a firebird free, Narcissa Malfoy leaned low over the still form of Harry Potter and hissed, Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle? Her eyes did not open when Yes, Harry Potter breathed back. Nor when He is dead! Narcissa Malfoy called out to the watching wolves of the Dark Lord and turned the battle irrevocably in favor of Harry Potter and his brave band of fighters.

She did not know when the battle recommenced, when the Dark Lord truly died at last, or when he turned to ash and scattered on the eight winds out towards each of the seven seas.

She did not wake when the final battle ended or when the hero returned to the castle; nor when the lion-hearted champions of the night gathered the wounded and ferried them back to the places they called home; nor when the victorious raised their glasses to toast the boy who lived and defeated monsters or when the rosy-fingered dawn reached over the horizon and turned the story of Harry Potter into a legend that would not die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Theseus and the Minotaur, The Death of Koschei the Deathless, Harry Freakin' Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Snow White (very briefly); The Odyssey.
> 
> "Rats' feet over broken glass" stolen shamelessly from T. S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men," (line 9).
> 
> Pretty much every epithet in the final paragraph is shamelessly stolen from Homer.


	20. Wolf Among the Roses

For three days and three nights Hermione slept and for three days and three nights, all the Weasleys fretted over their patient.

"She'll wake when she's ready," said Mr. Weasley, folding his hands behind his back.

"But what if there's something wrong we never even considered?" fretted Madame Weasley.

"Yes," echoed Bill, the eldest son. "It only took about ten minutes to heal her broken bones and after one blood replenishing potion she should have been well again."

"Indeed," added Charlie, the second eldest, "and she's the only one who knows how to brew the potion needed to make Ginny well again."

"Perhaps she just needs more time," suggested Percy, the third eldest.

"Maybe," agreed Fred and George, the fourth and fifth eldest.

"She's got to wake up," insisted Ron, the sixth eldest.

"She will," determined Harry, who wasn't a son at all but was loved as one all the same.

It was at that precise moment, surrounded by all the Weasleys and one Potter, Hermione's eyes fluttered open. She raised a hand to rub the crust of sleep indelicately from her eyes and, "Muh?" she grunted unintelligently. "What's going on?" she croaked with a voice hoarse from disuse. "Did we win?" Then, as memories surged back to her and she made sense of her surroundings, "Where's Draco?" she asked.

Before she could even leave her bed, Hermione set about brewing the potion necessary to wake Ginny Weasley.

"No, chop those smaller, Harry Potter," she ordered across the room to where the cauldron had been set up, "I said  _smaller_! You're just slicing whatever you— oh, never mind. Bring the cutting board here and I'll do it myself."

Harry and Ron exchanged a look but Harry obediently brought the cutting board to Hermione, who began at once re-cutting the shrivelfig Harry had all but ruined.

"We were wondering," hedged Harry while Hermione chopped, "If you were going to see Malfoy when you, er, can?"

The knife hardly paused in its smooth chops against the board. "Of course I am, Harry Potter. Don't ask silly questions."

"But... _why_?"

She did not say that she missed his subtle humor or that she was torn between wanting to hex him and thank him for saving her. She did not say that she was worried about his unchanging blindness or the beastly curse that no one could break. She did not say that she dearly wished to discuss with someone intelligent the books she had been reading with as much desperate hunger as ever. All she said was, "He owes me answers," and left it at that.

When at last she could move about, she borrowed a cloak from Madame Weasley, packed a wicker basket, and convinced Mister Weasley to bring her to the house of Andromeda Tonks, the mother of a dead witch Hermione never knew and sister to Draco Malfoy's mother. It was at her home, nestled deep in a forgotten wood, that Draco Malfoy was staying, far from prying eyes and questioning looks.

Two women greeted Hermione at the door. They looked so similar that they could not be anything but sisters. Neither woman smiled, but each wore the same expression of polite boredom that she had grown used to seeing on Draco's face.

Hermione bent in a shallow bow and looked from one to the other, shuffling the large wicker basket between her hands.

"You must be Hermione," said the taller witch, whose hair was chestnut brown, "Molly said you would be coming. Pray, step into my kitchen."

The shorter witch, whose hair was ash blond, said nothing, but her ice-blue eyes did not leave Hermione's face for even a moment as the taller witch bustled around the kitchen, preparing tea. Hermione set her wicker basket on her lap and fidgeted with the handle. When at last the brown-haired witch set three matching mugs upon the table, the blonde-haired witch said, "Have you come to see my son?"

At last Hermione knew which witch was which and nodded. "Yes, Madame Malfoy. I have come to see Draco."

"And will you run screaming when you see his face?" Asked Narcissa Malfoy, as imperious as a queen.

"No, Madame Malfoy," Replied Hermione, who thought the question rather rude, but decided to rise above the insult, "I have seen his face already and found it not half as terrifying as others I have seen."

"And will you rejoice at his blindness?" Asked Narcissa Malfoy, as ruthless as a soldier.

"No, Madame Malfoy," Replied Hermione, who was starting to get rather annoyed, but decided that she was going to be the bigger person, "That would be a cruel thing to do to someone I consider a friend."

"And will you—"

But before Madame Malfoy could utter a third question, Hermione cut in with, "I really just want to see how he's doing." She stood abruptly, without having taken a single sip of her tea and, taking up her wicker basket again said, "I really  _am_  quite busy, you know, so if it's all the same to you, I don't have all day to sit here explaining my motives to you." She paused before adding a begrudging, "Madame."

Madame Malfoy looked like she had just been struck but Madame Tonks, Narcissa's older sister, burst out laughing. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, she said, "He's just around back. In the garden, I think. Here," she got to her feet, "I will show you the way."

So Hermione followed Madame Tonks through the little house and to the back door. "I think it's best if you find him yourself," the older witch said, holding the door open and gesturing for Hermione to step through. "Although we are kin, we are little more than strangers to one another still. I do not want to get in the way."

After hurried thanks, Hermione stepped through the door and out into the garden. It was a riot of overflowing flower beds. Andromeda kept her garden alive and blooming in a perpetual, magical summer. Even now, when the air outside was brittle with late-autumn's chill and the clouds were dark and heavy with snow, Andromeda's garden was as warm and bright as a summer's days.

Deciding that now was as good a time as any, Hermione lifted the latch on the wicker basket. Crookshanks leaped from the basket and stretched his back in the artificial afternoon light. He cast one look back at Hermione and then set off between the flowerbeds.

At long last, Hermione and Crookshanks came upon Draco Malfoy, dozing beside a rose bush.

His ears twitched as Hermione's footsteps neared, although she tried not to disturb him.

"Who is that walking through the bushes?" he said, even as his nose wiggled, testing the air for familiar scents. His eyes, when they opened were milky white and stared unseeingly forward.

"Just me," Hermione said lightly, even though her heart was pounding in her ears.

" _Mew,_ " said the cat.

"And Crookshanks," she corrected and sat down a few paces from him.

His face, when she spoke, maintained the casual boredom she had just seen on the faces of his mother and aunt but the twitching of his ears atop his head betrayed his confusion.

"The flowers are beautiful," she commented lightly.

"Why have you come?" He asked. His voice, when he spoke, was calm but the twitching of his tail against the grass betrayed his nervousness.

"I wanted to thank you," she said.

"Oh," he replied, and although he hid it well, the slump of his shoulders betrayed something that she thought might have been disappointment. "Whatever for?"

"For saving my life," she replied, unwilling to let anything distract her from her purpose. "At the Black Castle. I'd have died for certain if you hadn't."

"Think nothing of it," he growled, waving a clawed hand, "You do not owe me a thing."

Crookshanks pressed his head against Draco's side, purring. Without even seeming to notice, he reached down and scratched the cat behind the ears.

Taking a shaking breath in, Hermione next said, "And you told me that, once everything was over, you would tell me everything that you have done."

The air was thick with expectation between them. "Ah," Draco said at last. "So I did. Is it all over, then? Should I tell you now?"

And although Hermione was sure that she would not like the answer, she was as brave and as curious as the day was long and so, "Yes," she said.

"And what did he tell you?" Harry asked that evening once Hermione had returned to the Burrow.

"Everything," Hermione replied and let Crookshanks out of his basket.

It was the way she said it that kept Harry from asking for details. He knew that Hermione, at last, understood what a beast Draco Malfoy was. In his heart of hearts, he was relieved. He had been troubled by his friend's preoccupation with the other wizard but as long as Hermione knew the whole truth of what he was, Harry knew her heart was safe, for who could ever learn to love a beast like that? "And what will you do now?" he asked.

She heaved a great, shuddering sigh and said, "Now, I've got to stir Ginny's potion thirty-three times counterclockwise." She unclasped the cloak she had borrowed and replaced it on its hook by the door. "And then I'm going to gather some books to bring to Andromeda's."

"What?" Harry spluttered, unable to believe his ears, "Why?"

Hermione gave him a thin little smile. "Because Draco can't read by himself as things stand right now, and I got the impression that he's been bored."

Harry's surprise at Hermione's decision was nothing compared to Draco's own reaction.

When she visited the next day, Andromeda again led her out to the garden and again she found him beneath the rose bush.

"I told you the truth yesterday," he barked out and scrambled to his feet. His sightless eyes traveled across her face as if he were still trying to use them to work out the truth.

"I believe you," she said and set her basket down. She plopped down beside it and opened it.

"I was little more than a lap dog for the D— Lord Voldemort," he exclaimed.

She considered this for a moment before saying, "More like a hunting dog, I think."

"I killed a lot of people," he said it the way a tongue will prod at a sore tooth.

"So you did," she agreed.

"I will not beg forgiveness," he snarled, drawing himself up to his full and impressive height.

She regarded him seriously. "Forgiveness is not mine to give," she replied eventually. "But even if it were in my power to give it to you, and even if you begged for one hundred, hundred days, I would not grant it."

"I have done too much to ever be redeemed," he said.

"I have not come to redeem you," she replied.

The air was thick with expectation between them. "Then," Draco said at last, "Why  _have_  you come?"

And although Hermione was sure that he would not like the answer, she was as good and as kind as the day was long and so she pulled out a book and, "I thought you might be bored," she said.

And thus the days passed: painstakingly, painstakingly Hermione brewed the potion that would wake Ginny Weasley. She collected tears from the Phoenix, who was never far from Harry's side. She stirred and chopped and kept an eye on the phases of the moon.

When she was not brewing the potion that would wake Ginny Weasley, she would fly or port key to Andromeda's little cottage in the woods to visit Draco Malfoy. She read him many books that she collected from the Weasley's library, but sometimes he would shyly offer something he'd requested from his family's mansion. They talked and laughed and argued about things great and small.

When she was not visiting Draco Malfoy at Andromeda's little cottage in the woods, she was looking for something. At first, she wasn't sure where to start, so she started everywhere at once. She pulled books from shelves and scanned pages and at long last, she found the very thing she was searching for.

And then she began to brew a second potion. And then a third.

"Are you even listening to me?" She asked, glaring at him over the top of her book. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath their favorite rose bush. Outside, a blizzard had wrung all color out of the countryside, leaving only unforgiving gray and white. Inside the garden, summer continued its perpetual rein and was a haven of color and peace in Hermione's life.

"Naturally," he replied. His hands never paused as they ran down Crookshanks' back. The cat's eyes were closed in exultation as he lounged languidly on Draco's other side.

"You weren't," she huffed and snapped the book shut. "Your ears were pointing that way." She gestured vaguely to the garden beyond them.

"The Horklump comes from Scandinavia but is now widespread throughout northern Europe. It resembles a fleshy, pinkish mushroom covered in sparse, wiry black bristles. A prodigious breeder, the Horklump will cover an average garden in a matter of days." He quoted with perfect accuracy.

"Alright, fine," she huffed. "But you just seem so bored."

His ears cocked. "And suppose that I am. How would you propose to entertain me?"

"I'm  _trying_  to entertain you," she snapped, jabbing her index finger into his shoulder.

Quick as a flash, his large paw had closed around her hand and jerked her forward across his lap.

"Ooof," she said and made to stand up, only to find his large hand gently holding her in place.

"You are not very entertaining today. We've already read Fantastic Beasts twice and I have no need to hear about Horklumps, Clabberts, or Acromantula for a third time." He said. "It's hardly my fault that you're not up to your usual standards."

"Well excuse _me_ ,  _your highness_ ," she grumbled and made to rise again, but stilled with she felt sharp claws scrape gently against her scalp.

"You are excused." He allowed graciously as he ran his claws through her hair.

She maneuvered herself into a more comfortable position, head pillowed on his lap. The fine tips of his claws continued their slow, even pass across her scalp and down through her hair. With a contented sigh, her eyes drifted shut. "Then how do you propose we remedy this?" she said at last.

"I'll entertain you today," he said evenly.

She snorted.

"No," he insisted, his claws continuing their careful ministrations, undoing small knots and twisting strands of hair around his fingers distractedly. "I will. I'll show you how a  _real_  master entertains."

"And how do you propose to do that?" she asked, smiling lazily.

"I'll tell you stories," he suggested.

"Like what?"

"Well," he said slowly, "How do you feel about fairy tales?"

She waved a hand and then, remembering that he couldn't see the gesture, said, "Eh. They're alright. All those princesses and fairy godmothers just seemed annoying to me."

His ears cocked in puzzlement. "Fairy godmothers?" he echoed, "I don't know any of those."

"You know," she persisted, "Like,  _Cinderella_ or  _The Goose Girl_."

"Cinderella? The Goose Girl?" Draco shook his head.

"I suppose," Hermione ventured, "That wizard fairy tales are different from muggle ones."

A wicked little grin curled up his sharp, beastly face. For half a heartbeat, she expected him to say something derogatory about muggles. She waited with baited breath for the derisive laugh, for the sneer, for the offhand comment about what muggles could possibly know about  _fairies_. But when he spoke, "Then you cannot have any objection to  _Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump_. Now stop talking so that I might entertain you."

At long last, the potion was ready and Harry, Hermione, and all the many Weasleys marched into the little room where Ginny slept like the living dead.

Hermione turned to the assembled crowd and said, "Who would like to administer the potion?"

"Molly, would you care to?" asked Mr. Weasley, gently taking the little glass vial from Hermione's offering hands and holding it out to his wife.

"Not I," Fretted Madame Weasley, "Her eldest brother ought to do the honors," and she passed the vial to Bill, who was standing beside her.

"Not I," echoed Bill, "She's always been closer to Charlie," he said and passed the potion to Charlie, who was standing behind him.

"Indeed," added Charlie, the second eldest, "But it's been so long since she's seen Percy. His should be the face she sees first upon waking." And he passed it off to Percy, who was hanging back from the crowd and looking anxious.

"Perhaps my face would give her a shock," suggested Percy, with a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "The twins have always been her favorite," he said and passed the vial to the twins, who were standing near the front.

"Maybe," agreed Fred and George in unison, "But Ron's the closest to her in age, so the honor should be his." Together they handed it over to Ron, who was at the foot of the bed, right beside Hermione.

"No," insisted Ron, who understood more than he ever let on, "Harry should be the one to do it. He's missed her the most." And with serious eyes, he passed the little glass vial finally to Harry Potter.

Behind him, all the other Weasleys and Hermione chorused their agreement.

"Thank you," said Harry, who had no family but loved the gathered witches and wizards as if they were his own.

"Three drops should do it," Hermione said as Harry unscrewed the cap.

He nodded solemnly and with one gentle hand he opened Ginny's mouth just wide enough to fit the dropper between her teeth. One, two, three drops he placed on her tongue and then held his breath.

No sooner had the third drop passed her lips than her eyes fluttered opened and color returned to her cheeks. She yawned and stretched as though she was just waking up from a nap and then she smiled. "Hello, Harry," she said.

And everyone cheered.

One afternoon, after Hermione had returned into Andromeda's little cottage after reading to Draco, she chanced to hear voices before she entered the kitchen.

"He speaks very highly of her," Madame Tonks' voice was saying.

"Indeed," Madame Malfoy's voice replied, brittle as the frost that caked the windows.

"Actually, he speaks of little else at all these days," Andromeda supplied with her usual, easy laugh. "The sun rises and sets with Hermione Granger."

From her place in the hallway, Hermione felt her cheeks darken and her heart quicken. She remembered their conversation so very long ago in Bellatrix's prison and had not dared to hope for more than friendship from Draco.

"Indeed," she sniffed, "But, given his current state, he has little else to speak of."

"Is it so hard to believe that he cares for the girl?" Andromeda's voice was growing dangerous.

"Surely he cares for her. She is his  _friend_."

"Friend?" Andromeda sneered. "Even  _you_ can see that they—"

"My son will marry no muggle. He has more sense, and better taste, than that."

Hermione felt like all the air had been sucked from her lungs. Andromeda, too, was silent for quite some time.

"You are a fool, Narcissa Malfoy."

"I know my son," was the sharp retort. "I know he would not have a muggle for a wife even if she were the only one who would have him."

At this, Hermione had heard enough and, unshed tears stinging her eyes, she made as much sound as she could before she entered the room. She made her goodbyes hastily and left through the fireplace without looking either witch in the eye. Not a single tear fell until she was safely back at the Burrow but, once she was there, she cried a river of tears. Once she had run out of tears, she dried her eyes, washed her hands, and continued to prepare her potions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Beauty and the Beast; Sleeping Beauty


	21. Stories About Wolves

Seven days passed before Hermione returned to Andromeda's little cottage in the woods, but she was not idle in that week. Although she did not smile and although she stared wistfully out the window at the still-frozen world, she continued to work. She chopped herbs and she measured out tinctures and, on the seventh day, the potion was ready.

With a heavy heart and heavier hands, she poured the potion into a little glass vial, placed the little glass vial delicately into her wicker basket, threw the cloak around her shoulders, and threw a fist full of powder into the fireplace.

"Hermione!" Andromeda called out when she arrived. "We were worried."

"We thought you'd finally grown bored with us," came Madame Malfoy's cold voice from the corner.

"Nope, just been busy," she replied tersely, forcing her lips up in a rough approximation of a smile. "Now, like I said, I'm busy so I'll just show myself out." With that, she stalked past the witches and out into the garden where she found Draco precisely where she thought he would be.

He leapt to his feet at the sound of her approach. "Well, well, well," he sneered, although his tail wagged and his ears were flattened with anxiety, "So nice of you to deign to visit again."

"I've brought you something," she said breathlessly as she walked up to him. She was glad for once that he could not see her face.

He froze, his nose twitching delicately. "You have been crying," he said. It was a statement, not a question. "What has—"

"Never mind that," she cut in quickly, rummaging with shaking hands in her basket. She didn't hesitate for even a moment for fear that she might lose her nerve entirely. "I brought you something," she said and drew the little glass vial from her wicker basket.

His ears remained flat against his head. "Hermione—"

"No, it's a surprise," she said, forcing cheer she didn't feel into her voice. She unstopped the vial and pressed it into his hand. She closed his hand around it. "Here, drink this."

His sightless eyes were intensely fixed on her face and every feature— his eyes, his tail, his mouth, and his ears— were turned toward consternation and confusion. She wondered, in a faraway sort of way, when she had learned to read his moods so clearly. Had it been when they were trapped together in Bellatrix's prison? Sometime in the last few weeks, here in this timeless garden, with nothing between them but all the things they didn't say? Or had it started even before that, back when he was nothing but a mystery and she was just a riddle he couldn't solve?

"Hermione, what is—"

"Pray, don't ask me what it is," she cut in, her voice wavering, "Because if you ask me, I'll surely tell you and I would much rather you just trust me. Just this once. It's all I'll ask of you."

Unsteadily, as if he wasn't sure how far away she was, he reached out with the hand that did not hold the little vial. He cupped her cheek gently and said, "I don't know what's upset you so much, but if it will help to have me drink this potion, that I will do it gladly. I'd do anything you asked of me, Hermione. I—"

"Don't," she cut in. She had a notion that whatever he was about to say would have been very kind. Uncharacteristically kind. And she found that she did not want to hear it. Not when she was so close to losing him forever, for surely, he would not feel so kindly toward her very soon. But he looked like he was going to argue with her and so she amended. "Not yet. Tell me once you've drunk the potion."

"Hermione," he said. He sounded annoyed, despite the worried set of his ears. "I haven't seen you for a week, and in that time, I've done a lot of thinking. Do you swear that, once I've drunk this potion, you'll hear what I have to say?"

She could not stop the quaver in her voice when she said, "Whatever you want to tell me, once you've had the potion, if you still want to tell me, I'll hear it."

This seemed to satisfy him, for he raised the potion to his lips and drank the entire thing in one big gulp.

She managed to catch him before he toppled sideways into the rose bush. Already the magic was working. He was unconscious, but his breathing was slow and steady as if he were in a deep sleep. Fur was falling from his changing face in great tufts and the black claws at the tips of his fingers were shrinking back into hands. By the time she gently, carefully laid him in the grass beside the rose bush, he was more man than beast.

She waited until the transformation was complete, stroking his lightening hair out of his elegant face as the bones moved and skin shifted to accommodate a long, straight nose and wide, indulgent lips. His robes, suddenly several sizes too big, pooled around him like a mighty blanket. He seemed in that moment impossibly, breathtakingly beautiful, something utterly inhuman dozing beneath a rosebush when all the world outside was wrapped in snow. At that moment, Hermione reaffirmed that she preferred blond hair to all other colors and the sharp blades of his cheeks to any other face she had ever seen. Her soul called out to him, but her heart broke, for she knew that, now that he was returned to his former glory, he would have his pick of all the witches in the land and he would surely not choose a muggle-born witch.

She hated him for that but, even more, she hated herself for allowing her heart to belong so freely to one who would write her off for foolish reasons. Yes, they had grown to be friends. Good friends, in fact, and she knew that he valued her opinions on many things, but she dared not hope for more than that. No, she knew that their friendship would end with his self-imposed exile to this cottage. Now he would be free to go where he willed and see whomever he wished. And he would not see her.

Without another word and with tears streaming unchecked from her eyes, she fled from the garden and did not stop, not even when Andromeda called to her from the kitchen, until she had flooed back to the Burrow.

* * *

She exploded from the fireplace sobbing almost hysterically. She had hoped that she would be alone in the Burrow's well-scrubbed kitchen when she landed, but alas, Harry and Ginny had been seated at the table playing exploding snap when she appeared. They sprang to their feet and ran to catch her as she stumbled out of the fireplace.

"Hermione," Harry began, clearly mystified, "What happened?"

"Did that bastard do something do you?" snarled Ginny.

In the two and a half weeks since Ginny had awakened, she had proven herself to be as fierce and as loyal as any of the Weasley's with a temper to rival Ron's and a caring nature that bested even Molly's. Hermione had never before met a girl as wonderful as Ginny— magical or otherwise— and was lucky to count her as a friend.

"N-no," stammered Hermione, sniffling heavily against Ginny's shoulder. She was embarrassed by her emotional outburst and even more embarrassed by her friends' unquestioning care. "I g-gave him the potion."

Harry and Ginny blinked at her in surprise. "Which one?" Harry asked, slightly mystified.

"The only one that's ready yet," sniffled Hermione, trying to get her emotions under control.

"The anti-fluff potion?" Ginny asked as she patted Hermione back in soothing circles.

Hermione nodded.

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" Harry asked, still confused. "Wait," his eyes narrowed slightly. "It  _is_  a good thing, isn't it? You weren't...ah...attached to all that fur?"

" _Harry_ ," hissed Ginny sharply, but Hermione giggled.

"No," she said, giving the two a watery grin. "Although I think I might miss the ears. They were so much more honest than he was."

"Is that why you're crying?" asked Harry, still looking puzzled. "You'll miss the ears?"

"No," she warbled. "Oh, it's so silly," she sniffled.

And that was when Ginny made the connection. "You don't think that he...Hermione, you fancy him, don't you?"

"Oh," Hermione chanced a glance at Harry, who was goggling at her, mouth open. "Well, perhaps a bit."

"And you think this changes things?" Ginny pressed.

"Well, I mean," Hermione hedged, "It's not like I ever had much of a chance in the first place," she murmured.

Harry spluttered. Ginny tutted softly. "Hermione Granger, you're being ridiculous."

"But his mother said—"

"His  _mother_  is ridiculous. You'll see." Ginny held Hermione out at arm's length. Her eyes glittered. "When's the last potion going to be ready?"

"Oh," Hermione sniffled but was glad for the distraction, "Five days. I was going to just owl it to them when it was ready."

There was mischief in Ginny's eyes. "I bet, before the week is out, you'll see the truth. One good turn deserves another, and I'm sure that all your good deeds will come back to you. Soon."

So Hermione, who was broken-hearted but not beaten, dried her eyes, washed her hands, and went upstairs to work on the final potion. At least it was something to do.

* * *

For five days Hermione did her best to laugh and smile, but in the quiet moments she sat too still and stared too forlornly out the window. Not even reading could shake her dark mood. She felt as though she had been scattered to the four corners of the earth. It was hard to focus on any one thing at once.

On the fifth day, right on schedule, her final potion was finished brewing. She poured the foul-smelling liquid into a third little glass vial and stoppered the concoction. From the doorway came the sound of a throat being cleared. She turned and found Ron leaning against the doorway.

"Is that for Malfoy?" the youngest Weasley son asked.

"Ah," Hermione said, acutely aware that there was no love between any of the Weasleys and the Malfoy family. "Yes."

Ron's ears were steadily turning as red as the setting sun. He cleared his throat again. "I never apologized," he began, much too loud. Then, catching himself, he tried again at a much more reasonable decibel. "I never apologized. For leaving. In the woods. You know, when you and Harry and I were looking for the phoenix."

"Oh," she replied. She hadn't thought about that in months. "Don't worry about it. Water under the bridge, you know? Everything ended up ok. I'm not mad anymore."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Harry said that, ah, that Malfoy helped you get the firebird."

"He did," Hermione replied, nodding her head and wondering where this was going.

"Well," Ron said. His ears were solidly red now and the blush was making its way across his cheeks. "I can't say I like him. He's a slimy, ferret-faced bastard, but he helped my sister and so, uh, yeah." He nodded like he'd just finished saying something important.

"Ok," Hermione replied slowly. "Well, I've got to go see if Errol will take this for me, so…" she tried to move around him in the doorway.

"I'll take it to him."

She gave him a stony look.

"I  _will_. I promise I won't destroy it or pour it down the drain or…or anything. I know how hard you worked on it and I'm trying to give him a chance. Please, Hermione?"

And it was only because she could see how hard he was trying that she nodded her head. "Alright," she said at last and handed the little glass vial over to him, "I'll just clean up in here, but if I come to find that Draco Malfoy didn't receive that exact potion in exactly the condition I will hex you in ways that you have never even considered. Do not test me on this, Ronald Weasley." She brandished her wand at him.

He watched the wand in her hands. "That's not the one you got with Dad, is it?" he asked.

She paused. "No," she confirmed, "It isn't."

"You're still using his wand, then?"

She tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Suppose so," she said at last.

Awkwardly, he gingerly patted her on the top of the head. "It'll all work out," he grumbled, "You've done a lot for everyone and one good turn deserves another."

"Thanks, Ron," she said, giving him a real smile and trying to pat her hair down.

* * *

Once she had finished scrubbing out her cauldron, she made her way down the stairs where she found Harry pacing restlessly, tapping his wand against the side of his leg in a way Hermione recognized as nervousness. When he heard her footsteps, he turned to look at her. His eyes were wide. His face was pale.

"Harry," she said slowly, "Is everything alright?"

"Look," he said, "You've done so much for everyone here, and one good turn deserves another, right?"

"Harry," she repeated and wondered if she should be reaching for her wand. "You're the third person to say that to me this week. I'm starting to get a little concerned."

"Right," he said, looking anywhere but at her. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Harry pointed his wand at her and said, "Petrificus totalis!"

Thankfully, he caught her before she hit the ground and mumbled, "Just remember, this wasn't my idea."

And with that, he carried her frozen form to the far corner of the kitchen.

* * *

Hermione, more than a little angry, watched as Ginny flounced into the room, gave Harry and Hermione a brilliant smile, and then opened the door.

Although she had been struggling against the curse, she froze when she heard a very familiar voice drawl, "Is this the home of the Weasley family?"

Her brain began to work double-time even as she struggled to breathe even more quietly, lest he discover her presence. Whose plan was this? Surely, it was Ginny's. Neither Harry nor Ron were devious enough to come up with something like this, but oh! how Hermione wished she could be anywhere else right now.

"Come in," Ginny said, stepping to one side and smiling broadly.

"If it's all the same to you," drawled the bored voice of Draco Malfoy, "I think I'd rather stay out here. I may be blind, but that doesn't mean I'm suddenly stupid enough to suddenly buy your happy friends routine." He paused, then, added, "You must be the Weaslette."

Ginny rolled her eyes, and Hermione could see the way she was grinding her teeth behind her smile. "If that is your wish, sir," she said, her voice sickeningly sweet.

"Right, then let's get this over with." A pale hand appeared in the doorway. "I received a summons from Hermione. Apparently, she left something for me with your," he paused as if it were a great struggle to find a word that would not be insulting, "Family," he said at last.

"Yep," Ginny said stiffly. "Look, will you  _please_  come inside? This will be so much easier if you just play along for now."

She would not have succeeded in her plan if Crookshanks had not chosen that very moment to pad into the kitchen, walk up to Draco with a happy trill, and rub himself against the blind wizard's leg.

"Is that Crookshanks?" He asked, although he already knew the answer. He reached down to scratch between the cat's ears.

"Indeed it is," Ginny replied.

"Is she here? Hermione, I mean. Is Hermione here as well?"

"No," Ginny replied, glancing over her shoulder at them, "But if you come inside and stay a while, she will be along in time."

There was a pregnant pause. "Fine," said Draco tersely, and stepped uncertainly over the threshold, Crookshanks just a step ahead of him.

Hermione told herself that it was a good thing that he was handsome. His well-tailored robes fit him perfectly and his blonde hair was tied back from his face with an elegant black ribbon. The only flaw on his otherwise peerless face was the milky gray of his sightless eyes. In his right hand was a black-lacquered cane, which swung from side to side a few feet in front of him. Hermione wished she was not here to see this.

"Won't you have a seat?" Ginny offered in uncharacteristic politeness.

"Weaslette," Draco sneered, the corner of his mouth curling up, "Even if I  _knew_  where the chair was, I  _wouldn't_  sit. Give me what Granger has left with you and I will be on my way."

"So distant," chided Ginny, her hands falling to her hips. Hermione did not need to see the way Ginny's foot tapped to know that she was growing annoyed. When Draco made no response, "Alright, I'll make this quick," the young witch grumbled. Then, rallying, she said, "Marry me."

All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room. Even if Hermione had not been frozen in place, she would have been unable to move. Around her shoulders, she could feel Harry's grip tighten, but he, too said nothing.

At long last, Draco seemed to find his voice. "I'm leaving," he said flatly, and turned, reaching for the doorknob.

"No, hear me out," Ginny said, holding the door firmly shut.

Draco grew very still then. A wand was in his hand although Hermione had not seen him move. Hermione's eyes widened as she recognized the soft brown of the wood. It was vine wood, just over ten inches, worn smooth where her thumb rested against its handle. "Weaslette," Draco said very softly, "I will do you the courtesy of a warning because Hermione favors you, although I personally do not understand why that is so. She has always spoken highly of you. So here is your warning: Allow me to leave unhindered and in return, I will allow you to remain alive. You have until the count of three. One."

"I'm a pureblood witch," Ginny said quickly, "And I don't care that you're blind. I don't have money, but I do have status. It would be a favorable union."

"Two."

"And I know how to give you back your sight."

Draco paused at this and turned his face towards Ginny's then. "How?" He asked in a voice barely more than a whisper.

"There's a potion," she said quickly, "I'm the only one who has it."

"And you will not give it to me unless I become your husband?"

"Yes," Ginny said. Again she glanced to the corner, and Hermione knew that she was locking eyes with Harry. This only confused Hermione further. She began to struggle anew against the bonds of the curse. Even being discovered would be better than being here to listen to this.

"Then my threat remains intact, but I will restart my count because I am a generous man."

"Why not?" Said Ginny. "Give me a good reason and I might give you the potion anyway."

"I would not trust the word of a witch like you, but much may it satisfy you to know this all the same: I cannot, will not, marry any witch but one, and you are not her. One."

"Who is she?"

"I owe you no more answers. Two."

"Just tell me her name. I need you to say her name. Out loud. In words."

Draco's useless eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Ginny was clearly nervous now. Her eyes were wide and fixed upon the wand. She knew as well as the rest the role Draco had played throughout the Dark Lord's reign of terror. She knew what a wand could do in hands such as his. "Because I'd really like to know. I'll give up on you if you tell me."

"Who else is listening?" Draco persisted, turning his head from side to side as if trying to pick up on some sound he hadn't noticed before. Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought she might have seen him sniff delicately, like he was looking for a scent his nose was no longer capable of picking up.

"No one," said Ginny, but she said it too quickly.

" _Mrrrp_ ," said Crookshanks.

Draco's face turned down toward the cat for a moment and then a look of resolve came upon his face. "For anyone who might be listening," he said, more loudly than he'd said anything else, "The witch I want is Hermione Granger, who wears a little red riding cloak. I will have no other. Not for gold or silver or even my own sight. I have been  _trying_  to tell her as much for some time now, but she's rather dense for how brilliant she is."

Ginny leaned back, arms folded across her chest, smiling smugly. "Now was that so hard?" She asked.

"Finite," said Harry beside her and she stumbled forward but caught herself on the edge of the scrubbed kitchen table.

At the sound, Draco's head snapped toward them.

"Hermione?" Draco said, staring unseeingly towards them.

"Hello, Draco," she replied. And then, because she was Hermione Granger and as clever as the day is long, she turned to Ginny and said, "Your brother didn't owl the potion this morning, did he?"

"Ah, no," Ginny coughed delicately, "But he  _did_ send a letter."

"Of course it was Weasley who sent it," Draco scoffed, but Hermione wasn't fooled by the coldness in his voice. Wordlessly, on shaking legs, she walked over to him and slipped her hand into his. His sneer did not change, but he gripped her hand tightly in his own, as if afraid she would slip away again if he let her.

"Where is the potion now?" She asked Ginny, one eyebrow raised.

Ginny had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "We knew you wouldn't believe it if you didn't hear it yourself," she explained quickly. She fumbled in the pocket of her robes and pulled out the little vial Hermione had so carefully bottled earlier that day.

"Thank you, Ginny," Hermione said, "We'll talk about this later. For now, Draco and I are going to have a little chat. Outside. In private," she added, in case there was any confusion on that subject.

* * *

The snow crunched under their feet as she led Draco to a little bench beneath a juniper tree. Somewhere, up in the wide branches of the tree, a little bird was singing.

"Hermione—"

"The potion's going to knock you out for a couple of days, and when you wake up, you'll have a beast of a headache," she said conversationally. "The headache is supposed to last three or four days after that but it might take up to a week to improve."

"About—"

"So I'm going to want to say this  _now_. Before you take the potion. Because I think I've already waited much too long to say it."

Draco stilled.

High above her, the little bird sang. For some strange reason, Hermione felt like it was cheering her on.

"Madame Greengrass was not my grandmother," she began. "Her granddaughter, the proper one, was my best friend. Her name was Astoria Greengrass and that red cloak was hers. She gave it to me to wear while I brought supplies to her grandmother in the woods. The day I met you, it might have been her instead. As it happened, it was I who went into the woods that day. Astoria was killed along with my family and the rest of my village. I wonder what it would have been like if it had been Astoria who had met you in the woods instead of me. She was very beautiful, you know, and a gifted witch in her own way."

"Hermione, you are—"

"No, don't say anything until I'm finished. I'm not making a comparison. Just because I say she's pretty doesn't mean I think I'm not. Just because she was a talented witch doesn't mean I can't be, too. All I'm saying is, sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if she had gone instead of me. Would she have done all the same things I did? Would she have run into you in the woods? Would she have thought to go looking for a firebird? Would she have been captured by Bellatrix? Would she have fallen in love with you too?"

The silence stretched taut like a bow between them.

Eventually, "Can I talk now?" Draco said, his voice sounding strangled and distant.

Hermione gave a nervous laugh and pulled her hand from his.

Unwilling to lose contact with his chosen witch for even a moment, Draco stretched his hands out until he cupped both of her cheeks. "I don't know anything about your dead friend, but I cannot imagine ever meeting a little red riding hood other than you and I cannot believe that a cloak that suits you so well could ever have belonged to another. Hermione Granger, you are the most stubborn, difficult, wonderful witch I have ever known. You bewitched be that first day in the woods and I have been powerless to fight the hold you have over me. You have changed my world and rewritten my stars. There is no future for me but one I can share with you. I have no idea how I might learn to live with you, but these last two weeks have shown me that I have even less of an idea of how to live without you. If you don't agree to marry me now, I don't think I'll ever manage to catch you, and I do not think that I could survive that. So I'm going to ask you now. Properly. Hermione Granger, would you marry me?"

Hermione smiled like dawn breaking over a troubled sky. "Yes," she said.

And then his lips crashed down over hers and her world exploded into light and sound. His lips were cool and soft and his mouth was warm and confident over hers. His hands curled into her hair and hers pressed against his chest and she marveled at how real and solid and  _here_  he was.

When they broke away, he pulled her against his chest. "Hermione," he murmured against the top of her head, "My little red riding hood."

She laughed breathlessly, her ear pressed over his heart. "Draco," she said, and she could hear the way his heart hammered faster when she said his name. "My wolf."

High overhead, the little bird trilled happily and flew far, far away.

* * *

Two weeks later, as soon as the headache from Hermione's potion had passed, Draco returned to the Burrow, bearing a litany of gifts for Hermione, Crookshanks, Harry, and all the Weasleys.

As Madame Weasley and Ginny  _ooh_ ed and  _ahh_ ed over a length of beautiful green silk, "I've come to make arrangements for the wedding," he said, bowing low to Mister Weasley.

"Her father is no more," Mister Weasley replied with equal seriousness, "So I will make arrangements on her behalf."

"My demands are as follows: As a dowry, I demand Hermione's hand, the cat Crookshanks, what books and belongings Hermione calls her own, and her little red riding cloak. In exchange, your family shall want for nothing for the rest of their days."

Although Mister Weasley nodded vigorously Hermione, who was not familiar with wizarding customs and so did not know that brides normally didn't have a place in the bargaining, said, "I can't do the cloak. Bellatrix took it and I'm sure it's been destroyed."

Draco's eyes flashed with mirth as he lifted one ornately wrapped package from the stack and passed it across to her. "I was hoping you'd say that," he said.

And so she opened the box and inside lay none other than Astoria's slightly battered red traveling cloak on a bed of paper so fine she could see right through it.

"My mother held onto it after I was taken," he explained, "She seemed to think it might be important someday."

Hermione's expression darkened. "And how does  _she_  feel about your marriage proposal?"

Draco ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "She isn't thrilled, but she'll come around. Once she has grandchildren, nothing else will matter."

"Grandchildren?" Hermione echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Who said anything about grandchildren?"

"You said you wanted kids," Draco shot back, looking petulant.

"When we were imprisoned in your aunt's castle! I didn't think I had a future at all! And of course I want children. I just don't want them  _right now_." Her hair was beginning to expand with building ire.

"Tomorrow, ten years from now, it doesn't make a difference to  _me_ ," he said with an imperious wave of his hand, "It's mother who—"

"I'm not doing anything just to make your mother happy. There's so much I want to do first. So many things to learn. And we haven't even talked about opening a school yet and—"

"School?! What school?"

"The school for witches and wizards of all backgrounds to learn together. I'm sure I mentioned it."

"I'm equally sure you didn't! Where would you  _put_ it?"

"I was thinking the Castle Black might be a—"

"You want to  _what?!_ "

And then, more to break up the impending fight than anything else, "Let's discuss the ceremony now," Mister Weasley cut in.

* * *

So they lived.

Within the year they were married, and within two they were expecting their first child. Hermione lived like a queen at Malfoy Manor and, true to his word, all the Weasley family and Harry Potter never wanted for anything for the rest of their days. Most of the time, they were happy. Some of the time, they were not. But always, they had each other and this, more or less, made up for everything else.

The end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales used: Beauty and the Beast; Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird, and the Grey Wolf; The White Snake; The Juniper Tree
> 
> A/N: There. It's done. A huge thank-you to everyone who has waited patiently for this story on ff.net, particularly to hoshiakari7, who has been my most consistent reviewer and most loyal reader. Also a huge thank-you to my beta. I know you said not to mention you, but I'm doing it anyway. Thank you so much. 
> 
> To everyone else: I know it might be inconvenient to leave a review, but kind words mean so much to writers. No one gets paid to post fanfiction, so kind comments or kudos are really the only reason any of us know what we're doing is appreciated. I know for a fact I'm not the only one who's a little heartbroken every time I throw something up online and no one notices. If you have a second, it would make my day if you left a review or a comment. (No lie, I actually read out all the reviews I get to my husband over wine every time my novel gets rejected from another agent. Sometimes more than once. When I get down about my writing, he quotes them at me. THAT'S HOW OFTEN I READ THEM OUT LOUD TO HIM.) Even if you don't leave a review here, please consider leaving kind words for other authors you like in the future. You make all the difference in the world. We're all doing this for you.
> 
> Liked it? Want to see more? Hated it? Want to scream at me about how I ruined your favorite fairy tale? I'm on twitter (@ImAllTeeth), tumblr (Vitreous), and my own website (thunderandhunger.com). I'd love to hear from you. Seriously.
> 
> Stay warm out there.


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